


After Sunset Comes the Dawn

by Cheekybeak



Series: Darkness [18]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Family Drama, M/M, Reunited and It Feels So Good
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2019-09-22 02:56:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 79,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17051732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheekybeak/pseuds/Cheekybeak
Summary: In a new world, old friends meet, but baggage from the past will shatter their peace and destroy their harmony. The future, perhaps, does not bode well for Aragorn and Legolas. Sequel to Beware the Starless Midnight and Even the Birds are Chained to the Sky





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story will make most sense if read after Beware the Starless Midnight and Even the Birds are Chained to the Sky.

**Prologue**

**Dagor** **Dagorath**

Battle is an all consuming, confusing thing. Especially this battle. A battle of heroes, a battle of the dead.

Am I one of them?

I do not remember how I got here. I know who I am, I know those around me, but I have no idea where I have been, or how long I have been missing.

I just am.

War is familiar, a well worn path I have often trod and that familiarity comforts me in the midst of my bemusement. For all it’s horror, fighting against the dark, fighting for my life, is something I know.

The sights are gruesome, the dust swirls, the blood flows, the screams of the dying flay my mind and my lungs burn.

And suddenly . . . There he is.

He is gold. A flash of light across the battlefield as his head turns sending the silken mass of his hair flying. A beacon. Can it be him?

And he sees me. We are locked—the two of us—in the midst of chaos, the midst of death, across the bodies of the enemy and our loved ones, in a gaze that says a thousand words with none at all.

“ _You are here_ ,” he whispers in my mind.

“ **Father!** ”

The scream of my son beside me shatters the moment into shards of glass and I turn to see desperation in his eyes, his sword slicing through an enemy who sought to end me even as I spin on my feet.

“What are you doing?” He gasps through ragged breaths. “Do you _want_ to die? There is no time to stargaze on a battlefield!”

My son who is not my son, not the one I used to know. He looks like him, but he speaks like a King, like one long seasoned, much experienced, not the novice I left behind.

I do not answer. I turn back towards the one with the golden light as the battle surges around me. But that light is gone. He is gone.

“I saw him!” I tell my son. “He was there.” But as he follows my gaze I know he sees nothing and his eyes tell me he does not believe me.

“You wish it so much you imagine it.” He frowns. He lectures me as if he is the father and it is dislocating. “Since I do not wish to lose you so soon after rediscovering you, I suggest you focus!”

He has endured long years without me—my son, even though to me it is but a moment in time since I last saw him.

“Eldarion . . .” I reach out to touch but he is gone. Releasing his weapon from the creature at our feet, charging back into the fray, my son who is a stranger.

And when I look back . . . across the bodies and blood, across the death, across the bitter landscape, Legolas is gone also.

 

And I wonder . . Is Eldarion right?

 

Was he never there?


	2. Chapter 2

  
**Eldarion**

**New Arda**

I am nervous. It is a long time since I have felt this way. All the way back to those days, shortly after my father’s death, when I felt adrift, presenting a strong, confident face to my people and advisors and all the time terrified I would do the wrong thing, make the wrong decisions.

It is not the thought of leadership that causes my stomach to churn now but what I may find in the trees that rise up before me.

I no longer have to worry about leading. My father is back, our people have naturally deferred to him, sidestepping me as soon as they saw him, and why not? I could never match him.

To be honest I am glad he is returned to lead us in this strange and yet familiar land. Our people are scattered. We do not even know where they all are or how vast is this new Arda. Can we not find them because they are scattered to the winds, different people from different times in different places? Or have they simply not returned as we have?

My father wished to go searching for his own father of whom we have seen no sign but who knows where he and the secretive Dunedain he leads are? And Father cannot go in any case, not yet, for we arrived here with nothing, not a scrap, no shelter, no protection, no cultivated fields. There is so much to do.

And all the time we have been here, though it is punctuated by occasional finds of others we know or love, we have seen no sign of anyone but Man. Is it true then, what we were told? The elves are gone for good?

My mother says not. She is steadfast in her belief they will rejoin us. But there has been no proof her faith is a rational one. Not until now.

The day the patrol returned—abuzz with rumours they had heard from a remote village, of ghosts in the trees, creatures who could only be glimpsed briefly dancing in the treetops of the forest—was a good one.

“Woodelves!” My mother cried when Father and I told her. “It must be, Estel. Legolas’ people!” How her eyes shone.

But Father was more cautious.

“It is more likely Laiquendi,” he sighed. “They describe them as wild. They have been able to make no contact. Surely it is that the Laiquendi, who chose to return their souls to the land, have been resurrected as we are. If it is Woodelves then it will be the Green Elves. Remember; though Legolas’ people in Ithilien were the ones we saw, they were but a tiny fraction of the Silvans, most of whom did not go to Valinor.” He laid a hand upon my mother’s arm, “Do not get your hopes up, Arwen.”

But Mother did not hear him. She would not. She had been given a glimmer of hope and she grasped it with both hands.

“I will go and see who they are! I will leave tomorrow. ” It was my sister, Tindómiel who declared it. There is no stopping her when she puts her mind to something but we all knew this was a terrible idea.

“Eldarion will go.” Father says.

“Both of us.” Tindómiel’s eyes flashed with the fire of stubborn resistance. “If these are wild Laiquendi no-one without an Elven fea will be able to prise them out into the open.”

She was right. That was absolutely true. But Timdómiel’s fea is the diamond sharp brilliance of the Noldor, the house of Finwë no less. The Laiquendi will not come out for her.

  
“You shine too brightly,” my mother says, “as do I. We need Eldarion’s soft Sindar glow for this, Tinu.”

I understood my sister’s desperation to meet the elves. She spent far too long in an Arda devoid of them. It was lonely—like living in a cage. Now she finally thought she was within touching distance of them she did not want to wait.

“But what if it is Legolas?” she says quietly, “ _He_ would come out for me.”

“Of course he would.”

Legolas always held a torch for Tinu. She was his star come to earth, he told her. High praise from a Silvan fascinated by starlight, as they all were.

“But it is unlikely to be he.” Father says it firmly, aimed at both my mother and my sister, “and so Eldarion it will be.”

And now I am here. The villagers have led us here and left us, frightened of the _ghosts_ who roam their forests. I am terrified. Not because I think these ghosts, no. Instead I am frightened more of what I may not find.

The weight of my mother’s expectations crushes me.

“If it is Legolas or the Ithilien silvans . . . Any of them . . . Look for my brothers.” She whispered to me as I departed.

As if I would not.

And worse than that is my Father’s stoic determination it is not Legolas at all. As if he fears to hope.

It takes all the willpower I can muster to step under that canopy. What if it is only the wild Green Elves? What if they are all that remains to us? What if those we have loved are lost to us forever? I begin to understand what it must have been like for Legolas . . . When he lost _us_.

The forest sings to me. I am not a woodelf who can talk to trees but I can feel them here. This is a place of joy. The trees rejoice. Their hearts are light.

The sun streams, dappled by leaves, across the path in front of us. The breeze lifts my hair, and of the ghosts we see nothing. I have not many men with me—a handful only. Enough to protect a King without threatening, hopefully, whatever Elven life that may dwell here. We are an expedition not an army.

It is a long time, years, centuries even, since I have sensed another Elven fëa that is not that of my sister, or my mother. For the longest time it was just Tinu and I. I have forgotten what it feels like, forgotten how to send out those tendrils, to brush against another’s soul. I am like I was as a boy when I did not know what I was, bumbling and uneducated. Any Elf happening across me would think me blind.

So it is I do not see him.

I do not see him, I do not sense him, I do not notice him until he drops to the forest floor in front of me, silently as only an Elf can.

The men behind me gasp.

I have chosen them carefully. Men of my father’s era rather than my own. Those who have seen Elves, spent time in Ithilien, known them. Many of our people have lived entire lives never seeing an Elf at all. Not these men. They do not gasp in fear or wonder. They gasp in recognition.

They know him . . .

  
But not as well as _I_ know him.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

  
I have known Legolas my whole life.

He was my father’s closest friend and flitted in and out of my life in Minas Tirith like sunshine on a cloudy day. He was the one who made the time to sit on the floor and play with my soldiers. We drenched ourselves in mud, we climbed trees, he taught me the bow.

It was he who discovered my elven soul.

Legolas was lightness and joy it seemed to me. He hid his sadness and the sea well from me. All I knew of it was enigmatic whispers from my parents.

But then everything changed.

Memory of the day he was buried under the stone of Minas Tirith is burned into my mind like a brand. Maewen on her knees scrambling in the rocks until her fingers bled, my father weeping, my uncle—my stern fearsome uncle—distraught. I still dream of it, that day. I still wake in a cold sweat glad to realise it is in the past and he survived.

He survived but all was different and even the boy I was then could tell. The rocks stole his language. All was a struggle for him. No longer could he leave me a note under my door promising to meet later for mischief if I studied well. The best I could hope for was one laborious word my mother would interpret for me. Always distractable, now he was more so. Always volatile now his moods sprung upon us out of the blue, dark and often vicious. Not towards me . . . Never was I subject to them . . . But my father was on the receiving end more than I would like.

Still through it all Legolas persisted. He battled and fought himself back, almost to the way he was. Almost but not quite.

Now it seems he has changed again.

He drops from the trees down the path from me and stands defensively, bow raised still and steady towards my chest. I know he will not miss if he chooses to let it go. He is impassive.

The dapples of sunshine create shadows across his face which blur it. They make it not quite right and yet still very much Legolas-like. The edges are odd, I tell myself, because it has been so long . . . So many years since I have seen him. My memory must have blurred during time.

“Legolas!”

He blinks at the sound of his name. A tiny movement that would be missed by many. Apart from that he is still, focused, immovable. He does not throw aside his bow at the sound of my voice and embrace me as I thought he might. The joy which leapt in my heart at the sight of him begins to falter.

“Who are you and why are you here?” He asks. “Know that I am not alone. There are many other bows in the trees.” His eyes flick swiftly across my men, assessing . . . planning. The Sindarin he speaks is thick with an accent I do not recognise. It is not the usual lilt of the Greenwood or even the more refined clip of my father’s Imladris Sindarin. It is not how he used to speak.

And I wonder, in the return of the Elves to New Arda from Valinor have they been damaged in some way? Have they been washed clean to begin again so he does not remember me? Are we doomed to find them, only to discover the memories that make them our beloved are not there. A dreadful image of my Mother’s long-missed brothers and father not knowing her fills my mind.

“We come in search of you, Legolas. We mean no harm.” I raise my arms in supplication. I do not wish to end up dead from his bow.

Again I see the tiny flick of his eyes at his name.

“You mistake me for someone else.” He says. “Do not call me that. It is not my name.”

But I am sure he _is_ Legolas. He can be no other.

“I am Eldarion.” I try again, “We knew each other once. Do you not remember me?”

“Eldarion . . .” He hisses my name softly as if he tosses it about in his mind and I hold my breath.

Suddenly his bow is tossed aside and he is in front of me. He is so fast I did not even see him move. Unused to the agility of elves he takes me—and my men—completely by surprise. I sense their hands fly to the hilts of their weapons but they would have no chance to protect me if need be. The knives that glint upon his back would cut me down long before they could reach me should he choose, and doubtless arrows would rain upon them from the trees. We are at his mercy.

We stand face to face and then his hand is upon my cheek. Softly, gingerly, he touches me as if I would bite him, as if I am a mystery to solve. His head tilts to the side as it always used to when something perplexed him. His green eyes are the same, exactly the same.

“Eldarion?” He says it as a question. “The son of Aragorn-the-King?” It is strange the way he says my father’s name and title, blended together into one. As if he did not know him at all.

“Eldarion; son of Aragorn, called Elessar Telcontar, King of Gondor and Arnor and Arwen Undómial, daughter of Elrond.” I hope a reminder of my mother’s Elven heritage may help us.

As quick as he raised it his hand drops from my face and he spins on his heels, striding back to his bow, hoisting it on to his shoulder, whistling up into the trees. It feels as if I am dismissed.

I am rooted in stone. Is this _it_?

Half a dozen Woodelves drop from the trees at the sound of his whistle and they jabber—as he does—in the singsong music that is his native language. I recognise the sound of it. I heard it often enough—my mother could speak it. But Legolas would never teach it to my Father and I. He guarded it like a jewel.

They are agitated, they wave their arms amid exclamations. Woodelves are never boring to watch. They are always excitable. That much is the same. It is obvious several of them object to whatever it is he has to tell them.

Still he is Legolas and he prevails.

“You will leave your men here and follow me.” He barks it at me as an order.

“I cannot leave them. We will leave our weapons but they must accompany me.” I attempt to negotiate to no avail.

“They can camp outside the forest.” He waves his arm dismissively as if I did not speak at all. “There is a village there . . . One of yours. I will return you to them when we have finished.”

Behind me my men shuffle uneasily. They understand him. They know Sindarin. They are not willing to leave a king alone with someone so strange, so unpredictable, so not what we expected, whoever he may be.

But my father, who does not dare to hope for this reunion and my mother, whose desperation for her family breaks my heart, need me to see this through. I cannot walk away.

“Daegal,” He was my father’s Captain in Minis Tirith. I will leave him in charge. “Retreat to the village. If you do not see me by nightfall tomorrow return to Father for help.”

“I cannot leave you here alone, my Lord,” he protests as expected. “Something is wrong,” he stares pointedly at Legolas. “He is not as expected.”

“I know that but he will not harm me.”

Daegal frowns and shakes his head.

“You cannot know that Eldarion.”

“I promise him safe passage,” Legolas interrupts us for of course he can hear every word we say even though we whisper—I must remember to take account for elven hearing. “If he does nothing to endanger us he is safe. Why would I hurt him?” But Daegal looks at him with doubt in his eyes.

“Go,” I implore him. “Do not make me order you. You know my father would make the same decision if he were here.”

“And he would expect me to keep you safe.”

“I am not a child, Daegal,” I tell him, “I know you were not there to see it but I have been a King for many a long year. Go.”

There could not be a more reluctant looking man than Daegal as they leave.

And Legolas stands and watches their departing backs, curiosity written large all over his face.

“They do not trust me.” He says as if it is a sudden revelation, when we are standing alone. His men have melted back into the trees but I know they are there. They do not trust me either.

“I am their King.” I tell him. “Would you leave your king alone in a strange place with wild, unknown people?”

Too late I remember who his king actually is.

Too late because he laughs. A derisive laugh at my ridiculousness.

“I would leave Thranduil _anywhere_ should he tell me. He need not be afraid of _you_.”

I have to bite my tongue not to object. His words are cutting. I do remember now he had that ability—to lacerate you with his tongue.

“You are not what we expected, Legolas.” I try again to cut through this defensiveness with memory. To reach the Legolas I once knew.

But he whirls away from me in disdain, stalking down the path, leaving me standing alone.

“You will get lost if you do not follow me,” He tosses over his shoulder and it spurs my feet to move until the next stops me in my tracks . . .

“I am never what is expected.” He turns to look back at me, flashing a brilliant dazzling, surprising, lopsided grin. “And my name is not Legolas. Aragorn-the-King may be your father but _Legolas_ is mine . . . You should call me by my own name . . .

  
“I am Estel.”


	4. Chapter 4

  
“I am Estel.”

It takes the breath from my lungs, this casual aside of his.

Legolas has a son.

He has a son and his son is named Estel.

He has a son and that son stands here in front of me.

“Legolas’ son?”

He laughs at my shock and amazement. It is not the light and merry laugh of Legolas. It has a bitter edge.

“He has named you after my father?” It is a foolish question, stating the obvious and I feel a fool, but he has blindsided me.

“He named me because I am his hope.” He flicks his head dismissively as if the idea of being my father’s namesake is abhorrent to him.

I have a wealth of questions for him but something tells me he will answer none of them pleasantly.

“Legolas is here?” Please let him say he is, for my father’s sake.

“Of course. Do you think I would return here without him?” His answer drips with contempt for my stupidity. Then he pauses, his gaze wanders towards the path my men disappeared down before returning to me. “Where is your father?” He asks. “Were we not worth a visit from the King of Men?”

He aggravates me.

“It is not that at all,” I protest. “We have seen no Elves in all the time we have been here. When my father heard reports from these villagers of ghosts in the trees—”

Estel cuts across my words.

“Ghosts?” He chuckles. The idea of being thought a ghost obviously amuses him.

“Their descriptions sounded like Woodelves.” I try to ignore his amusement, “and while we hoped it might be the Silvan from Ithilien Father decided it more likely to be Laiquendi, those whose fëa returned to the land, born anew alongside it.

“Laiquendi . . .” His eyes flash with excitement at that. “Reborn with the land? I wonder if Laerion has thought of that!” I know who Laerion is of course, Legolas’ brother long dead, and now, I assume, he is no longer dead at all. But Estel’s animation lasts seconds only before a cloud descends.

“So the Laiquendi were not deserving of a visit then? He sent you instead for the lowly Nandor?”

“No. It was because he knew they would not show themselves to a Man.”

“ _You_ are a Man.” Estel spits at me before turning on his heels and walking away.

“And _you_ are not listening!” I call after him, but what is the point? Legolas has obviously not told him of my Elvenness and I certainly do not want to now.

For most of my life I have been something I am not. I have taken the very heart of me and tucked it away from sight, buried it deep. There was no room in Gondor for an Elven King . . . Or even a mortal Half Elven one. My mother was acceptable, caught up in the euphoria of victory as they were when my father married her, but they did not follow that through to its conclusion. They did not stop to think what it would mean for their future leaders. My sisters and I were mortal and therefore we were Men—as far as any in Gondor considered it at all.

Except that was not how it was. Not for Tinu and I at least.

And when my uncles finally left we were alone. There were none who understood the sound of the song, none who could reach out to touch our fëa, save ourselves. It was soul destroying.

I spent my life pretending. I turned from opportunities, I did not follow my heart, I lived how others wished me to. The burden of duty crushed me into something unrecognisable from the spirit I carried within. I have made a vow. That will not happen again.

Now my father leads us again there is no need for me to follow their rules. I feel Elven and so this time I will be Elven. I have a second chance.

And I will _not_ begin by explaining that to this truculent boy who doubtless does not care anyway.   
As hard as it is I bite my tongue and let the insult to my father lie.

I cannot imagine how I ever thought Estel like Legolas. He may look similar but in character they are not alike at all. Legolas is lightness and joy but this Estel is haughty and arrogant I decide. How Legolas ended up with a son such as this I do not know.

I nearly walk into the back of him in the midst of my pondering, when he stops abruptly at a fork in the path, and earn a scathing look for my clumsiness.

A Silvan chooses that very moment to drop from the trees.

“Which way?” He asks, his Sindarin tinged with the same strange accent as Estel, and Estel hesitates. “Your Father is at the shore, they tell us.” the elf adds and I wonder why they allow me to understand this conversation; perhaps they have finally remembered their manners?

Estel chews on his lip as he considers, something I have seen Legolas do so many times. Although I now know this is not him it is so dislocating to see.

“We go to my Mother,” He announces finally.

Maewen, surely. It must be her.

“But—” the Silvan begins to protest but Estel cuts him off with a wave.

“We go to my Mother. That is best.” He snaps. “Do not second guess me on this.”

It seems he will keep me from Legolas as long as he can.

I remember Maewen. Shy, and gentle, she appeared from nowhere when none of us had had any clue of her existence at all. Legolas had told me of her, the most beautiful woman in the world, he called her, more so than even my mother. I was only small then and did not believe him for who could surpass my mother in beauty? No-one. I thought he told me fairy tales.

And then she was there. And she was beautiful. Not my mother’s exquisite Noldor beauty that is above all others, but in an exotic, wild, untamed, woodelven way. And although reserved and shy at first meeting we soon discovered the determined strength that lay beneath. Woe betide you if she ever thought you treated Legolas badly. I could see why he loved her.

She was my sister Tinu’s hero.

Will she still be the same after so long?

Estel leads us to a clearing amongst the trees. He stands still and silent at the edge, watching the Silvan’s gathered there working, building a flet it seems to me. So they have arrived with as little as we have then.

At their centre, obviously in charge, stands Maewen. It is as if time stands still as I watch her. It has been years—centuries—since I last saw her and she is exactly the same, not so much as one single hair is different. It is as if I am back in Gondor all those years ago. We watch her as she works, Estel and I, and my heart thuds; memory accosts me.

We stood on the shore as she, Legolas, Gimli, and the smattering of Ithilien elves left to go with them prepared to depart. It was heartbreakingingly, soul-crushingly sad. All of us were mourning for we had lost my parents not so long previous. This was yet another loss.

There was no joy in any of us . . . Except Legolas.

He had been morose, silent, a wall of stone, a well of unspoken despair since my Father’s death, but now, after years of fighting against it, he was answering the call of the sea and it made him giddy. His laughter floated over our silence as he rushed here and there making my uncle wince as he heard it. For Elrohir was to remain, meaning they would be separated—for a time at least—yet the reality of fulfilling the sea-longing had left Legolas unable to do anything but celebrate. It was hurtful, even I could see that.

It was Maewen who stood beside Elrohir and acknowledged his pain.

“He will grieve for you when we get there.” She told him. “Gimli and I will keep him safe. I promise.”

“I know,” he sighed. “At the moment he can see nothing but the sea. It obliterates even you and I.”

And Maewen placed a hand upon his arm, causing him to tear his eyes from the gleeful Legolas to look at her.

“When you next meet there will be no more sea. He will be free of it. It will be glorious, Elrohir, and not so long away.”

I tore my eyes from them then for I knew the only reason Elrohir remained was for my sake. I wanted to be able to tell him to go—to sail with them as he wished and be happy, but I could not. As much as I wished it I could not face losing them all at once. I was ashamed of my failure to do that for him. I still am.

Maewen looks across to us now, her face lighting up when she sees Estel, and she smiles. The exact same beatific smile my mother bestows upon me when she sees me, even now. Then her eyes slide across towards me and all stands still.

I see the shock upon her face. Her eyes widen, the smile is frozen, her hands fly to her mouth. And Estel steps forward.

“I have found the Prince of Men wandering in the forest.” He says diffidently, as if I am not a very desirable discovery at all.

“Eldarion! Is it true?” She gasps and walks towards us. One, two, three steps before she embraces me and I am buried in it . . . The glory of an elven fëa. For Maewen knows of the elven soul inside me and she greets it. She greets it joyfully, she wraps it with the evergreen, fresh, sunlit filled, scent of her own.   
  
And it has been so long . . . So very long since I have experienced anything except my fellow Men whose spirits lay behind glass, or the all too familiar feel of my mother and sister, that I weep.

When Maewen pulls back from me tears glisten on her cheeks as well.

“I hope these are as joyful as mine are.” She says as she wipes mine away. “You look just the same, Eldarion.”

And Estel stares, with a look of frank curiously. Perhaps he thinks me weak? I do not care.

“You cannot imagine how joyful,” I tell her, “and you . . . You have not changed at all. I do not know why I imagined you would.”

“Tell me . . .” She stumbles nervously over her words before she asks her next question, “Tell me . . . Is he here? Tell me it is not just you.”

Of course I know who she means.

“It is not just me. He is here, not with me today but he is here.”

And she sighs . . . A long soft sigh of relief.

“He has waited so long and it is nearly here,” she whispers. “Estel,” she says then lifting her voice, “Legolas is fishing by the sea, can you fetch him?” The thought of Legolas by the sea alarms me, why did she let him go there? But then I remember, he must be without the sea-longing now. How strange that seems for I have never known him without it.

But as soon as she has spoken she changes her mind, bouncing on her feet in eagerness.

“No wait, Estel. We will go and meet him there!” She grasps my hand, “come with me Eldarion. I cannot wait for this.” And she cups Estel’s head with her hand as we pass him, pulling him close. “You have bought us such a precious gift, my son.” She murmurs, “Thank you, brave one.”

“I did nothing.” He shrugs moodily, but he follows us all the same.

I can hardly breathe as she pulls me in a rush down the path. Is this real? A sea-longing free Legolas awaits me at the end of this track and all the waiting, all the grieving and pain he and my father shared is within a hairs breadth of being done with . . . Forever.

“If you hurt him, you answer to me.”

The low voice behind me is bitter, and when I glance over my shoulder it is obvious to even a fool:

Estel’s eyes flash dangerously.

He means what he says. 


	5. Chapter 5

  
Legolas always was beautiful. When he arrived on his visits to Minus Tirith even those who knew him would stop and stare. He shone with a light that captured and transfixed you, and the best of it was he seemed completely unaware of it.

He is beautiful still.

He stands in the shallows of the sea, small foaming waves lapping around his feet. A child is with him. Small and delicate, all chestnut hair and large round eyes. They bend over a bucket, total concentration as they watch whatever they have caught inside it.

It seems wrong to see him so contented and still in the midst of the sea. I have never in my life seen him amongst the waves before.

Maewen steps in front of me obstructing my view.

“Legolas,” she calls. “Estel has brought you a gift.”

“A gift?”

There are a million memories wrapped up in that voice. It’s soft lilt familiar right to the depths of my soul. Even he has a touch . . . A hint . . . Of the strange accent Estel speaks in —an accent he did not use to have—but still that voice is the one which sang me lullabies as a child, told me stories of adventures and excitements, guided me as I grew. That voice brings tears to my eyes.

Then Maewen steps aside.

Legolas stares.

He does not move. He crouches where he is and stares up at me. It is the child that breaks the silence.

“Where is the gift, Mother?” He asks, in the high excited voice of a boy. “Estel, did you bring me a gift too?”

Maewen’s hand on my back pushes me forward.

“Go to him.” She whispers. “Go.”

Legolas has pulled himself upright when I reach him. He has the child’s hand in his and he does not take his eyes off me—not once. I am unused to the intensity of an elven stare.

“Eldarion?”

The last time I saw Legolas he was a chaotic sprite, unable to stay still, flitting from place to place, intoxicated by the smell of the sea, and the promise of answering its call. Our goodbye was barely a goodbye at all, so little could he concentrate.

Now he is motionless, contained, focused. The contrast could not be greater.

He mimics his son in his greeting, lifting a hand to cup my face, but where Estel was hesitant and questioning, Legolas’ touch is full of love.

“You look the same,” He says as Maewen did. “Just the same as you did that day on the shore.” I am surprised he can remember any of that leave-taking, but then, as distractable as he was, he is an elf.

“Legolas . .” The child beside us is breathless with excitement. “Is this a Man?”

“Not just any Man!” Legolas smiles. “This is Eldarion, Rhawion. A very special Man.”

“Not as special as me!” The boy squeals as Legolas bends down to scoop him up in his arms, he is all coltish long legs and arms, not the easiest to hold, and Legolas laughs along with him.

“Almost,” He says, “almost as special as you.”

And suddenly I am in danger of crying.

Maewen is there then. Hoisting the boy off Legolas so efficiently he has no chance to protest.

“Come, Rhawion, we will go prepare a place for Eldarion to sleep tonight, The sun begins to set, and we must make a feast for him too, do you not think?”

“We have caught some crabs, Mother. We can eat those!”

“Well Legolas will bring them with him.” She walks away, up to where Estel stands, still quietly watching. With a firm nod of her head she bids him follow but he is reluctant, I can tell. I can hear the child’s voice, high and eager, as they leave.

“Did you bring me a gift too, Estel?”

And when Estel replies his voice is so soft and gentle I hardly recognise it. All trace of the bitterness it has been dripping with is gone.

“I did,” He says, “See here, a stone just for you. It is so beautiful, Rhawion. Imperfect and wonderful, see there is even a line of purple running through it . . .”

Their voices fade. Then it is just Legolas and I alone.

I realise I have not yet said a word.

“It is hard to believe it is you.” My tongue is clumsy. The words thick in my mouth. “I hoped it would be you but . . .” In the end I cannot think of any words at all.

Legolas’ fëa shines with green and gold as it always has done, and now it dances around me with joy. It is as familiar as that of my sister, my mother, and yet somehow . . . It is different.

As long as I have been able to sense him the lightness of Legolas has been tinged with a soft, sad, melancholy. It haunted the edges of him, the slightest, almost imperceptible wrongness in his song. That has vanished. The faint taint of sea salt you could almost taste is missing too.

And despite myself I find I am resenting their absence. This is not the Legolas of my childhood. He is not the Legolas I have been anticipating, wishing for, imagining. That Legolas is gone.

My Legolas is gone forever.

This new Legolas has colours that are brighter. He has a song that is lighter, higher, sweeter. He is stronger. He feels happy, truly happy and I should rejoice. Why am I not?

I touch his completeness and all I feel is loss.

It is selfish, and childish and it shames me but I want him back.   
I want my Legolas back.

Instead I have the one standing before me now, smiling the same brilliant smile. But he is Estel’s Legolas, he is the child Rhawion’s Legolas, he is Maewen’s Legolas.

When tears spill down my cheeks and he shakes his head, laughs at my foolishness and wipes them away, he thinks them tears of joy like the ones I shed with Maewen.

But they are tears of loss. A deep heartfelt loss. They are the tears of the boy I once was, who has just realised he has lost his champion . . . For always.

By the time we walk back towards the clearing I have pulled myself together. I manage to laugh with him about my obvious sentimentality he finds so funny. I shove the feeing of wrongness to one side—I am being silly I tell myself. I am better than this, I am happy for him, I am—and answer his questions—there is only one really.

“Are you alone?” He thrums with the same tension Maewen did when she asked me. I put him out of his misery quickly.

“My Father is here, not here with me now, but he is here in Arda. A days ride from here, no more.”

“A days ride,” he sighs, “after all this time, only a days ride.”

The Woodelves gather around a roaring fire when we arrive and I can smell the aroma of delicious food cooking. Maewen is a miracle worker.

“Food of the sea!” Legolas calls out, as he deposits his bucket and gives her a kiss. He is relaxed, joyous and still. Before Legolas would never stop moving. Even in Ithilien he would fidget from one place to the next. Distracting himself from the sea, Maewen told me once. He could not stay still in case it captured him.

Not now.

Now he is calm.  
I am not used to it. It seems incongruous with the Legolas I knew.

Estel sits next to me when we eat which surprises me. Legolas is across from us, the small, curious Rhawion on his lap. Rhawion could not be less like his brother. He is woodelf through and through. Whereas Estel has Legolas’ Sindar features Rhawion has not a hint of them. I realise as I watch them, I have never seen an elfling before. He fascinates me.

“Why do you stare at my brother?” Estel’s voice makes me jump. It is curt and tense.

“He is the first elfing I have seen,” I tell him. “There were none before in Arda. Not for many years before I was born. My mother told me once she thought Legolas was the last.”

He is frankly curious as he looks at me.

“Well we have plenty now.” He says in the end. “You will get sick of Rhawion before too long. He is tiring.”

“Do you get sick of him?”

“No. He is my brother.” There it is again, the softness in his voice. It changes his whole demeanour.

Rhawion it is who first senses the new arrival. He is on his feet, barrelling across the clearing before I even realise anyone has arrived.

“Father!” He cries, “Father!”

He almost knocks Erynion off his feet as he wraps his small arms around him.

And my mouth drops open as I finally put all the pieces of this puzzle together. I have made assumptions and they are wrong. Rhawion is not Legolas’ at all.

“A Man is here!” Rhawion is saying and Erynion is as surprised as I am when he sees me. I like Erynion. I always have. Quiet, calm, gentle, he helped keep Legolas on an even keel. We saw much of him in Minas Tirith.

“Do not judge him!” Estel mutters beside me amongst the ensuing chaos, sharp, cutting, threatening. It makes me spin to stare at him. He was so mellow just moments before.

“Judge who?”

“My brother. Should you or your kind hurt him I will take him, I mean it. I will take him back to Valinor where no-one minds who his father may be.”

“How dare you.” He makes me angry. I will not let this go. “You do not even know me. How dare you suggest I would harm a child. Any child. His parentage is of no import to me. I have known of Maewen and Erynion since I was a child!”

“My Father tells me there are some of your people who will not understand, who are intolerant, who may be cruel.” His eyes flash, he sticks his chin in the air, he is looking for a fight.

“Some of my people, but not me!”

He is right. There are many who will not understand this. They will not understand the complex arrangement of Legolas, Erynion, Maewen, and Elrohir, let alone a child in the middle of it. They will understand Estel who is so obviously his Father’s son but they will not understand this child of Erynion’s. Legolas and Maewen are all my people have ever known.

“And your father? What of him?” Estel will not back down. Harder and harder he pushes.

My Father has always struggled with Legolas’ loves. He will struggle with this also. He accepts it. He loves them all, but he understands none of it.

“My Father will love him, because Legolas loves him, and he will let none harm him.”

Whether Estel believes me or not I do not know. I want to like him. He is Legolas’ son so I should like him. But I do not think I do.

It is late at night, when the Woodelves begin to retreat to their beds when Legolas finally seeks me out alone. He drops down next to me where I sit under the stars, crossing his legs, graceful as he always was.

“You are quiet, Eldarion.”

“I am out of practice.” I tell him. “I am no longer used to Elves.” It is true. The sheer number of fëa brushing against mine as they pass is exhausting. “It is overwhelming after so long on my own, with only Tinu.”

“What was it like?” He asks, “Elrohir has told me some, but after he left? What was it like for you?” His face is serious, eyes intense. I have not spoken to anyone about this. My Father has not asked, my Mother neither. I think they do not want to hear the answer.

I am tired of keeping it to myself.

“Lonely. It was lonely, Legolas, and empty. I lived my life in a cage behind glass . . . Pretending.”

He frowns.

“You were not happy?”

“Occasionally. There were happy moments, of course.”

“Moments . . ” Legolas mutters. “Moments are not a life.”

“Can you imagine it?” I ask him, “a world without Elves? Being the only one?”

He is still and silent as he thinks on it.

“Yes.” He says in the end. “I remember what it was like during the fellowship. I was alone then. That is why Gimli and I became such good friends against all odds.” There is the faintest glimpse of a smile at that. “We were alone together, no dwarves, no elves. It was isolating. I could not have done it forever.”

“I had to do it forever. There were no other options, but it was not easy, Legolas. It was not easy.”

He gives me one the looks he always had that strips you to your core. My uncles are good at them as well. It is as if they push all the outer pretence and bluster away seeing right to the heart of you.

I turn my face away. I am not quite ready for it.

“I am sorry.” He says in the end, placing a hand gently over mine, “I did not want that for you. Perhaps if I could have stayed longer . . .”

“You stayed long enough!” The last thing I want is him carrying guilt for my sake.  
  
“Will you do something for me?” He asks quietly. “Will you let me talk to Elrohir about this . . . Before you do? He will blame himself.”

“It is not his fault.”

“He will not see it that way.”

And I realise, I have been with him for hours and I have not asked about my uncles. How could I forget them?

“He is here? Elrohir is here?”

He laughs, bright and shining, a burst of happiness in the dark.

“Can you imagine him letting me come here without him?”

I cannot.

“And Elladan too?”

“Can you imagine Elladan letting Elrohir come back without him?”

I laugh at myself then for that is a truly ridiculous scenario.

“I told you I was out of practice with Elves.” I tell him, and he grasps my hand.

“Not any more, Eldarion. Not any more.” He says.

He always was my protector.

It makes my heart sing to know he still is. 


	6. Chapter 6

  
**Elrohir**

It is strange to once again have my feet on the soil of Arda.

I never wanted to leave. Had my life been my own, had there been no Legolas and no Elladan pulling me across the sea, Arda would have been my choice.

Now I am back and my fëa sings.

The next task is to search out my people. My father has gone already, out into the wilderness with his father looking for my uncle, his brother, Earendil’s other son. This is the reality my father has been searching for all the years I have known him, a chance to find his brother. . . To find Elros.

But they barely speak to each other—he and Earendil—so I wonder how their search is going? Quietly I imagine. I hope Elros can lead them back to each other for nothing we try has helped.

But while Father forged out on his first day in Arda to find his loved ones I must wait. I must wait for Legolas. I cannot go looking for Aragorn and Arwen without him, and though I know it is all he thinks about he will not go until his people are secure in their new woodland and Maewen is safe.

I think he is afraid.

Legolas is one of the bravest I have known. He stands tall in the face of adversity, he does not shrink from danger, but after so many years of waiting and believing, being so close to seeing those he loves again has scared him. For what if it is not true? What if they are not out there? What if we are in this new land alone?

He is frightened to begin in case we discover that is the truth of it.

And so I wait for him.

One day he will; one day he will take that first step.

“My Lord, someone comes!” The young man who calls out to me must have been daydreaming and distracted from his work but I do not blame him. Planting new fields, building a new life, can be tedious.

He is right. When I look up across the grassland I see them—two golden heads bobbing across the land—I see them and I know them. Legolas and Estel, it can only be them.

And then my heart stops.

“Get my brother!” I say to the boy who has drawn my attention to them. “Get him now.” Perhaps I frighten him but there is no time to explain for I am running. . . Running towards them, running towards him.

For there is someone with them. A dark head beside the blonde, slightly stocky beside their Woodelven litheness, and I know who he is. Even at a distance I know.

Eldarion.

The last of my boys. The one most like me for he has an Elven soul. The one I left behind, trapped by his mortality. The one whose shuttered, lonely face on the shoreline, watching us as we sailed, has haunted my dreams for years.

Legolas brings me Eldarion.

Legolas’ laugh; light, airy, joyous, is the first thing that greets me but it is Eldarion I head for. He is the same, just the same. That same spirit, so familiar, touches of my sister, my brother, my grandfather Celeborn especially. Eldarion’s own mix.

And he is happy. Happy as he never truly felt to me in Arda long ago.

“Where have you come from?” I gasp. Surely Legolas has not ventured out searching without me?

“Estel found this mortal wandering in our forests,” Legolas smiles. “We thought you might like him.”

Estel.

I look towards him. Estel my shining boy, the boy closest to my heart if I am honest. One who would not grow old, die, leave me. This precious gift Legolas and Maewen have let me share. His golden spirit an echo of his father’s but wilder. . . And yet still softer and gentler . . . somehow.

I love him with all my heart.

Estel’s eyes radiate fear. His spirit is drenched with it, and that fear cuts through my elation like a knife. He hurts.

But Eldarion it is in front of me. His face is wet with tears as I have no doubt mine is and I lift a hand to rid him of them.

“Eldarion has returned to us all sentimental.” Legolas chuckles beside me. “He is always crying.” And Eldarion laughs.

It is a joy to see.

My brother runs across the fields towards us. The young man I sent to warn him has likely panicked him into thinking we are invaded or some such nonsense. And behind him comes Laerion.

I am always so conflicted about Laerion.

All my life I have felt I am less somehow than Elladan. It is not he who makes me feel so but all those around us. The radiance I have with Legolas was the one thing I had that shone beyond him but now he chooses Legolas’ _brother_ for himself. Of all the elves in Valinor it must be Laerion Thranduilion Elladan finds?

Legolas was discomforted at first but then tossed his head, as he does, and accepted it with a smile.

“They are happy, Elrohir.” He told me. “Laerion has been lonely. It is not a blazing love such as ours. I do not think it a forever thing. But it is soft and calm and comforting for them now. Why would we destroy that for them?”

Why indeed? He is right. Elladan is happy and I should be happy for him but as much as I try it is still difficult.

Elladan is certainly happy now. Diffident and distant with Eldarion for so long as he grew in Minas Tirith now he embraces him. Elladan it was who had the job of guiding him into his Elven fëa when we discovered it.

But Laerion stands apart. Of course Eldarion is a stranger to him. He goes instead to stand between Legolas and Estel, one arm protectively around the boy but it Legolas he talks to. I cannot hear what they say but Legolas laughs and shakes his head while Laerion is somber. Always he worries about Legolas, especially so since the Dagor Dagorath. I understand that—I do. But it is not necessary now. It is as if he does not trust me to watch over his brother. He sees me observing him now and I receive a measured Thranduilion look for my troubles. That is another thing about Laerion. Having him around is as if Thranduil himself accompanies us—which is most disconcerting.

Elladan will not let him avoid this welcoming. He reaches across to grab Laerion by the sleeve, dragging him away from his sprite of a brother.

“And this is Laerion!” He exclaims. “You have not met. This is Eldarion, Laerion. My nephew.” He shines as he says it. I do not know which he is prouder of, introducing Laerion to Eldarion or the other way around.

Laerion dips his head in polite greeting but Eldarion’s eyes widen. In truth his astonishment is quite amusing.

“Laerion?” He gasps. “Legolas’ brother?” He states the obvious for they are so obviously brothers though Laerion is a more pure copy of the regal Thranduil than my wild Legolas. Laerion, Legolas and Estel standing together seem so very simlilar and yet, at the same time, so very different.

“Indeed. And you must be Elessar’s son.” Somehow Laerion manages to make that sound undesirable and Elladan gives him a look. I have been on the receiving end of that look many, many times myself and I cannot help but chuckle when I see someone else suffering it.

“I have heard about you.” Eldarion stammers. To him Laerion must seem as a ghost . . . And Laerion turns to Legolas,

“What have you been telling them?”

“That you are bossy, and meddlesome, and irritating.” Legolas leaps away from the swat of his brothers hand with a flash of his brilliant, blazing smile and my heart thuds to watch him. It is not true of course. In reality Legolas spoke very little of Laerion during those years, too painful was it for him to think on his lost brother.

Elladan and Laerion stroll ahead of us, Laerion’s arm across my brothers shoulders, casually, intimately, as we return to the settlement. I walk with Eldarion; Legolas and Estel behind us.

“I cannot believe you are here.” I tell him for it does feel unreal.

“Hmm,” he replies, a noncommittal noise that tells me he is not really listening. His eyes are on my twin in front of us. “Elladan and Laerion seem . . . Friendly.” He continues nonchalantly and yet at the same time, not.

“They are lovers.” It is Estel behind us who blurts it out with a cutting edge to his voice I do not recognise and when we both look behind his eyes flash with a challenge. Not for me . . . For Eldarion. He thinks this will discomfort him,—wants to let him know he knows more about Elladan than Eldarion . . . One or the other, I am not sure which.

“Lovers?” Estel has landed a blow there for Eldarion is incredulous. “How did that happen? What do you think about that?” He asks me.

“Oh . . . “ I am acutely aware of Legolas’ ears behind me, “Elladan is happy. That is all that counts.”

 _And it is_. I tell myself. _That is the only thing that matters._

But it is easier to say than feel.

It is late before I track Estel down on his own. I have been watching, waiting for my opportunity but it is not until the sun has set that I find him, conviently alone, being his Silvan self under the starlight. His very posture tells me of his unhappiness. Sometimes Legolas is so careless with this boy of his, letting his own joy distract him from Estel’s troubles.

He jumps at the fall of my hand upon his shoulder before I sit next to him, which tells me he was miles away.

“Unhappy?” I cut straight to the chase. “You seem miserable out here on your own”

He looks back over his shoulder towards the fire where Legolas sits laughing with Eldarion.

“What have I to be happy with?” He sighs in the end.

“You Father’s joy? Is that not enough?”

“They will only hurt him.”

“No.” I take his hand in mine. This boy has spent far too much of his life guarding his father against harm. “This is the end of the hurting, Estel.”

“I do not trust him. I do not trust _any_ of them.”

“ _I_ trust them though. Is that enough for you? You know I would not let any near him who would hurt him.”

He is silent but he does not shrug off my hand. That is one thing.

“When I look at him Father’s grief is all I see,” he whispers, “and that has hurt _me_.”

“It is not Eldarion’s fault Legolas grieved for he and Aragorn.” I say softly, “That is just how it is when you love someone.”

“Then they should not have let him love them. They knew they would die!”

“But how do you stop that, Estel? Eldarion was but a child when Legolas learned to love him—a baby. He is a good man. You would like him if you let yourself.”

“I do not wish to like him.”

I put my arms around him then and sweep him up to hold him close, this anxious man-boy of mine who worries far too much.

“But I wish you to try.” I tell him. “He would be a good friend for you.”

“I do not need one. I have friends enough!” he cries.

“But not one like Eldarion. Try for me, Estel.”

Of course Legolas chooses just that moment to appear. Just when I had nearly won Estel over he lets him off the hook. He lopes towards us, a smile upon his face, Eldarion trailing awkwardly behind and throws himself to the ground at his sons feet.

“Why out here on your own, so far away from us, Monkey?” He calls his son by the name he has had for him since childhood.

“I am not on my own.” Estel replies with the smallest of smiles, “Elrohir is here.”

And Eldarion shuffles his feet.

“Sit down.” I pat the ground beside me and he does, but I do not think he wants to.

Legolas has not even noticed. He is on a different track flitting off on a tangent as he so often does when he is joyful.

“Do you think Harad is here. . . Or the like?” He leans forward all eagerness,“I could show you a real monkey, Estel and you could see why I named you that. Have you heard anything of it Eldarion?”

“We have not ventured far . . . My father wants to go in search of Arathorn but who knows where to start?” Eldarion mutters and I am transfixed. Arathorn? I had not even thought . . . Imagine seeing him. There are so many of them out there—mortals I have loved.

“Come, Estel,” Legolas is on his feet again, pulling Estel after him. “I wish to talk to Laerion about this theory you have about the Laiquendi returning.”

“Well it is not really my theory, Father,” Estel is struggling to keep up now Legolas is off focusing on something new. I love it—this flightiness—for it means he is well, but oh, it can be exhausting.

Still I can hear Estel laugh as they go and it warms my heart. In the midst of his happiness Legolas has remembered he has a son to watch over and that is good.

And Eldarion and I are left alone. He watches them too, Legolas and Estel, as they walk away, and he sighs.

“He is not what I expected.”

“Who?”

“Estel.” He says. “I expected Legolas’ son would be someone I actually liked. How did he end up with such a creature?”

He leaves me speechless and perhaps he takes my silence for agreement for he continues.

“He is rude, arrogant, spoilt and conceited—” Perhaps he has good reason to think that? I have seen Estel’s rudeness towards him with my own eyes. But I know the heart of Estel. I have helped him grow, and every insult stings like a wound to my own heart.

“Enough!” I will not let him continue and I am sharp about it. “That is _enough_ , Eldarion. I will _not_ tolerate this!”

He is instantly, sullenly, silent before he springs to his feet to leave me.

“That’s that then,” he snaps as he turns to go.

“Oh this is how it will be, Eldarion? I do not see you for centuries and you storm off in a sulk?” He behaves as a spoilt child. He reminds me of when I first met him, as a tiny boy who stamped his feet and held his breath when he felt wronged by us all, and only Legolas could charm him.

He is not ready to be charmed now.

“Is this how it will be, _Elrohir_?” He replies, “I do not see you for centuries and you choose to spend your time speaking with someone else?”

I can not believe it.

“Are you _jealous_?”

Instantly his bravado evaporates before my eyes. His head hangs, his shoulders slump. He is miserable.

And instantly I forgive him.

“Sit back down,” I tell him. “Let us start this again, from the beginning.”

He does sit. He chews on his lip and I wait. I do not have to wait too long.

“I do not know what it is, Elrohir. Being reunited with you all has me behaving like a child. It is ridiculous.”

“You do not have to be jealous of Estel, Eldarion.”

“And I am not. I am _not_. This is beneath me. I am long past this.”

“This is strange for all of us,” I sigh. “Do not be too hard on yourself. I only hope I do not have Aragorn throwing tantrums when I meet him.”

That makes him chuckle—the thought of his father behaving like a toddler. I knew it would.

“He can, you know,” he smiles. That is more like my Eldarion.

“Believe me, Eldarion, there is nothing about the great Elessar I do not already know.”

He moves towards me then, leans against me so we sit shoulder to shoulder in the starlight.

“I have missed you.” He says and there is a longing there that brings a pang of sadness with it.

“I have missed you too,” I tell him, and oh how it is true. “I have missed you too, Nephew.”

For it has been too long.   
It has been far too long.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In order to understand the second half of this chapter you need to read the oneshot “Paradox” first.

  
“Let me explain something,” I tell Eldarion as we sit under the stars. “Let me explain Estel.”

  
He sighs.

  
“He dislikes me. I do not know what it is I have done, Elrohir—beside be myself—so I cannot fix it.”

  
What do I tell him? That being himself is exactly what he has done.

  
Instead I start at the beginning.

  
“I did not know Estel until he was about the age you were when I first began to spend time with you in Minas Tirith. He was a boy then—nearly a young man—but I had not seen him, besides glimpses at large gatherings when it was politic Legolas and his family attend.”

  
“Valinor cannot be that big, surely,” Eldarion scoffs disbelievingly.

  
“The Legolas you see now is not the Legolas we have been living with.”

  
I am stern and he blinks in surprise.

  
“How so?” He is softer, more open, when he continues so I am also in my reply.

  
“He has been grieving, drenched in misery and unhappiness. He struggled after Aragorn but the loss of Gimli broke him. It was very dark, Eldarion. Estel was a ray of light in his darkness and he clung to that. He shut him away in his woods where he would be safe. The thought of more loss terrified Legolas. Maewen called me for help in the end. When I first met him Estel was a boy desperate to break free but at the same time terrified of his Father’s misery. He had appointed himself guardian of Legolas’ happiness but it was a task he could not fulfil. He was only a child.”

  
“That is not good,” Eldarion murmurs.

  
“No. Not good. And yet there were enough flashes of the real Legolas, bright happy days amongst the melancholy that it seemed tantalisingly within reach, at least for a boy. Estel is still in that place, Eldarion. Still protecting his Father at all costs. He looks at you and all he sees is someone who will harm Legolas.”

  
“He does not even know me! He has no reason to think I will harm _anyone_!” He is rightly indignant.

  
“But you already have,” I tell him. “You. . . and Aragorn especially. Estel sees only the misery he has grown up with. He has not seen your good times—the reason why Legolas loves the both of you. But he has lived through the pain that followed, that you have not seen. He does not trust you.”

  
“I am not responsible for that!” He throws his hands up in air in frustration. “What was I suppose to do? Push him aside when I was only a child? Refuse his help and advice when I was growing?”

  
“I have told him you bear no responsibility for Legolas’ pain in Valinor, Eldarion, but I want you to understand. I want you to see where the anger and moodiness comes from. I want you to get a glimpse inside his head. Estel feels he alone stands between Legolas and his unhappiness. He is terrified you are a threat to the peace Legolas has only so recently found.”

  
“So what do I do?” Eldarion sighs in the end. “After all I cannot change my history.”

  
“Gain his trust Try to see him through different eyes. Be a friend.”

  
“Ha,” he laughs then, short, sharp and bitter. “Hard to be a friend when he does not wish for friendship!”

  
“You would give up so easily?” I ask him, “That is not the Eldarion I used to know. Has a life as a King made you an easy conquest?”

  
“A life as a King has made me tired.” he snaps back.”A life as a King has made me swear I will not be doing that again. A life as a King has made me lose myself.”

  
That response is worrying.

  
“Was it that bad, after we left?” I have thought long and hard about him left behind in Arda without us. It tore my heart to do it but Elladan needed to leave and Legolas waited for me over the sea. What could I do?

  
And instantly he stops talking. He slams that partially open door into his heart shut in my face. He leaps to his feet and moves away.

  
“It was not so bad,” he says. But he will not look at me when he says it and I do not believe a word of it.

  
“Eldarion, sit here and tell me.”

  
“There is nothing to tell. I am tired, Elrohir. I will think on your words about Estel, I promise, but I want some sleep. Legolas had me up at the crack of dawn this morning.”

  
And as easy as that he shuts me out. He shuts me out and walks away, a soft goodnight thrown over his shoulder as he goes.   
What happened to him after we left?

  
The stars give me no answers.

  
“Why the brooding in the darkness?”

  
Gently Legolas drops down beside me out of the night, and with him he brings his light.

  
“This is a great day. You are reunited with Eldarion, your boy. Why are you out here alone?” He asks.

  
“Wondering what has happened to him since I last saw him. I do not think it was good. He showed me a sliver and then shut the door in my face and walked away.”

  
“Ah,” So fast I almost miss it a look of guilt flits across Legolas’ face. “That is my fault I think.”

  
“Your fault? You were not even there! You were in Valinor already when I left him.”

  
He reaches out and takes my hand, lacing his fingers between mine.

  
“My fault he walked away from you. I asked him not to speak of that with you until I had.”

  
“You what? Asked him not to speak to me? Why?”

  
“He has been unhappy,” Legolas sighs softly. “Imagine it, Elrohir, a world without elves. I knew it somewhat during the Ring War when I travelled with the Fellowship. It is isolating . . . so lonely. I asked him not to tell you because I knew you would tear yourself apart with guilt and self blame and you should not.”

  
“Isolating? . . . Lonely?” It is my worst fears realised. “Was it that bad?” Please tell me it was not that bad. “He had Tindomial.” 

“Tindomial is not, perhaps, the most . . . Nurturing of spirits.” Legolas laughs softly at the thought of my niece being described such and he is right. She has many strengths but softness and gentleness are not amongst them. “A gentle Sindar and a fiery Noldor alone in the world together is not a definition of comfort.”

  
“It works well enough for my Grandparents!” I am defensive despite myself, “Galadriel and Celeborn have survived the ages together.”

  
Legolas laughs out loud then, bright and joyful. It cuts through my anxiety and makes me smile. I can never resist it. His laugh is magical.

  
“Galadriel and Celeborn are Man and Wife. Eldarion and Tindomial are Brother and Sister. It is not the same I think, Elrohir. Besides, were they to be left alone in the world Galadriel might drive Celeborn to distraction.”

  
“She already does.”

  
I can see why the spirited Tindomial may not have been enough to ease Eldarion’s loneliness.

  
“I should not have left. I should never have left.” I always knew it. I struggled so much with my decision to leave. “I failed him.”

  
“You did not fail him.”Legolas is adamant. “You has an unwinnable choice. You had to go with Elladan. Sunder yourself from him? You know that was not an option. You have seen what it did to your father to be without a twin. You stayed as long as you could, both of you. You could do no more. The blame for Eldarion’s misery does not lie at your feet!”

  
He may be right but it does not feel it.

  
“There must have been another option. I just did not see it.”

  
“There was no other option and you know it, Elrohir. Elladan could resist the sea no longer.”

  
“Then I should have let him go and stayed behind by myself, just until Eldarion —”

  
“You know that would not have worked!” He cuts me off before I can finish. “Face another loss by yourself? With no one here to support you? Get yourself across the sea when you were the only one left? And how would you have ever convinced Elladan to leave you behind?”

  
“I cannot bear the thought of Eldarion there on his own if he was unhappy. I cannot stop feeling responsible for that, Legolas.”

  
“Listen.” He leans himself against me. As always his light uplifts me, from even the deepest melancholy. “There is nothing we can do about that now. It was not fair but we all were trapped in a nightmare not of our making. He has survived it and he is back. You should enjoy him. We cannot change the past but he will need your help to claim the future he wishes for himself now. You should concentrate on that. Let go of what lies behind and put your energy into making things right for him here.”

  
He is right, of course. I cannot change the past. Eldarion’s sadness there is unable to be altered. But I can make up for it in his future, and I will. Whatever it is he needs to be happy I will fight for.

  
So I sit under the stars, Legolas’ hand warm in mine. Soft, yet strong it offers me support and love. His fingers weaved between mine are a comfort. But as we sit bathed in starlight together with our thoughts another memory lands unbidden and unexpected in my mind, as sharp, as clear, as crisp, as the day it occured, not so long ago. Memory of another handhold not as pleasant. His grip that day was terrified and desperate. I can feel it. He clung to me as if I alone held him here in the world, as if I was his anchor. I can see it all, the paleness of his face, the wideness of his eyes. I can smell the metallic tang of blood—so much blood. I can hear the roar of battle and his voice despairing over top of it . . . _Please stay_. . .

  
It is sudden and completely unexpected. Why do I remember this now? And for a moment I am there.

  
I let go of his hand as if it burns me.

  
And immediately I am back, in my new home, my new land, with one who loves me beneath the stars.

  
It is a second only, before I blink and snatch up again Legolas’ hand.

  
“I am sorry,” I tell him. “I do not know why I did that.”

  
But he says nothing. He does not question me. He sits, head forward, hair falling across his face so I cannot see it, as if he stares at our hands entwined upon his lap.

  
The warm, wet tear that lands, upon my hand shocks me.

  
“Legolas?”

  
He is not one for weeping. Over the time I have known him has had many reasons to but I have seldom ever seen it. Certainly not over a lost touch.

  
“I am sorry. Something startled me, that is all.” I try to reassure him. I am not going to describe the memory that accosted me. Not to him. He does not need to hear it. It is bad enough he lived it.

  
It is his turn to pull his hand from mine then as he leaps to his feet before I can stop him.

  
“Forgive me this.” He rubs a hand across his eyes as if that will hide the evidence I have upset him. It does not. “Meeting Eldarion has been overwhelming. It has left me overemotional. So foolish . . . Ignore this.”

  
“Legolas—”

  
It could be that . . . It makes some sense. Meeting Eldarion has been overwhelming, even for me and though Finrod has spent long hours in Valinor weaving Legolas’ fea back together, even though he has achieved the unachievable, still Legolas does struggle at times to maintain an even keel. It could be that.

  
But I think it is not.

  
Why is it Elladan and Laerion choose this exact moment for a moonlit stroll?

  
They walk out of the darkness, arms across each other’s shoulders and Elladan glows. He is happy. He is always happy with Laerion.

  
I push that spark of jealousy away.

  
This is what I want. I _want_ him to be happy. But did they have to saunter up to us, surrounding us with their happiness, right now?

  
And Laerion, Laerion who watches Legolas like a hawk at all times, sees everything. No wiping of his eyes will enable Legolas to minimise this sudden upset to his brother.

  
Laerion drops his arm from around my brother and goes straight to him.

  
“What is wrong, little one?”

  
My sister used to call Legolas that—I have no idea why—and he objected strongly every time she did. He never objects to it from his brother though.

  
“Nothing,” He says now. “I was just telling Elrohir, meeting Eldarion has been . . . Strange. It leaves me jumbled. This is just silliness.”

  
“Silliness?” Laerion is not convinced and Elladan raises a questioning eyebrow my way.

  
 _What goes on here?_ He whispers in my head.

  
 _I do not know_.

  
It is true. I do not. Moments ago we were loving and calm. Legolas gave me good advice. He comforted me. I am unsure how a dropped handhold has led us here. The suddenness of it has unbalanced me.

  
But Laerion knows what to do. He holds Legolas close, pulls his head down upon his shoulder for Laerion is bigger, stronger, than Legolas’ lithe silvanness. I can only watch while they stand there.

  
“What can I do?” Laerion asks.

  
I should have asked that. I would have, had they not chosen this moment to appear.

  
“Nothing.” Legolas pulls away then, straightens himself, smiles although I can tell he does not mean it. It is not his usual dazzling smile that outshines the sun. “I will go for a walk. Compose my thoughts. Regain my equilibrium.”

  
“We will go together, “ I tell him.

  
“No. By myself.” It is a rejection that stings.

  
“If you think I am going to let you swan off into the trees on your own, little brother, you are wrong.” Laerion is firm and Thranduil-like. I would do as he said if _I_ were Legolas.

  
But Legolas, as always, is his own self, with his own mind.

  
“No, Laerion. I am a child no longer, _remember_. Finrod has taught me what to do. How to steady myself when the cracks show. Some time in the trees on my own is what I need. _Trust_ me.”

  
He turns to me then, the smile more genuine this time.

  
“And you do not worry either. I will come and find you when I have patched up Gimli’s walls. I just need space.”

  
He means that fragile self-control he painstakingly built back up after his accident, with the help of the dwarf. Even though Finrod has reinforced and remodelled them still Legolas refers to his internal walls by the name of his beloved dwarf.

  
So I let him go.

“What happened?”

Laerion turns to me the instant we have finished watching Legolas swing himself into the trees, all agility and beauty.

“He is obviously upset.”

  
He asks what happened but I am sure were Elladan not there, it would be _what did you do to him?_

  
“I do not know. That came out of nowhere. We were speaking about Eldarion, his life in Arda after we left him. Perhaps it was memory?”

  
“I am worried about him,” Laerion says with a frown. “This is what I was meaning,” He says then to Elladan, “There is a feeling of unease within his fea. _You_ will have felt it,” he tells me.

  
They have spoken about Legolas between the two of them? And not told me?

  
 _You talk about worries with Legolas behind my back?_ ” I hiss silently in my brothers mind.

  
 _Nothing substantial_ , Elladan sighs as if he rolls his eyes at my annoyance, _Vague possibilities only. Had there been real concern I would have told you._

  
How dare they! Am I invisible?

  
But to Laerion I am polite.

  
“I have felt it, yes.” For I have. The faintest hint of disquiet on the edges of Legolas’ dancing fea of gold. “But I have assumed it is anxiety about returning here. He worries about a reunion with Aragorn . . . How it will be. And when last in Arda he was damaged and unhappy. There are bad memories here as well as good ones. I thought it must be that.”

  
And to my surprise Laerion listens.

  
“It could be,” he acknowledges solemnly. “You are more the expert on Legolas in Arda than I am.” It must hurt him to admit that. “I was worried it may be the Dagor Dagorath.” 

Why does he say that? Following so soon after my own memory of that war his words sting like a slap.

  
“Why would it be anything to do with that!” I am harsher than I intend in my reply.

  
If Laerion notices, he does not even blink.

  
“The wound was so severe. He should not be with us now. I worry Finrod and Finarfin, even with their skill may not have been able to avoid further damage to his fea and it is battered enough.”

  
Why did I not think of that? Should I have?

  
It is Elladan who steps in while I am standing there, flummoxed. He puts a reassuring hand on Laerion’s shoulder as he does so.

  
“It is as I said, Finrod knows Legolas’ fea well. He and Finarfin tread so carefully you could barely feel a trace of them, they are that skilled. If there had been any chance of damage he would have warned us. Likely it is as Elrohir says, and Legolas himself, just now. Returning here is confronting. It brings with it memories he has spent years avoiding. Seeing Eldarion, as much as it is joyous, has been dislocating even for me, let alone Legolas. It is most likely that, Laerion. I know you worry but it is most likely just that.”

  
“Still,” Laerion frowns, “perhaps I should speak with Finrod?”

  
“Good luck in finding him!” Elladan laughs and he is right. Our uncle disappeared the moment he arrived here. There was too much to revisit, too many new discoveries for him to stay in one place as we have done. Finrod is an explorer not a settler.

  
“I can find him.”

  
I have no idea what gives Laerion such confidence in that.

  
Legolas is true to his word. He returns, late into the night, and slips into bed behind me, curling his warmth around me.

  
“I am awake.” I tell him although, of course, he knows that.

  
“Tell me you have not been lying here worrying.” He sighs.

  
“You know I have.”

  
“There is no need, Elrohir. I am not the Legolas I used to be. Trust me to care for myself when I need to.”

  
“I do trust you.”

  
“Except you do not.”

  
“I _do_. If I did not I would not be lying here. I would be out amongst the trees watching for you.” I wonder if I should mention Laerion’s concerns but decide against it. If he has only just regained his precarious control then reminding him of the Dagor Dagorath would be unwise.

  
“I am sorry,” he sighs, breath warm against my back. “Seeing Eldarion, being back here . . . It is so familiar and yet not the same at all. It is not easy, Elrohir.”

  
It is exactly as Elladan said. The strangeness of this experience unsettles him.

  
“Elladan and I find it just as strange,” I reassure him. “You are not alone, Legolas. Never, if I have anything to do with it.”

  
“Of course,” his laugh is soft behind me. “You will never leave me. I know that.”

  
Why does something in his voice leave me wondering if he really does?   



	8. Chapter 8

  
**Estel**

  
I have never seen a mortal up close—not before Eldarion. He is the very first and strangely he looks much like us. He is broader than my father and I, more like Elrohir and Elladan in build but not as tall as they. His ears are the oddest thing about him. They look as if someone has trimmed a piece off them. When he sits near me I find myself staring at them. I have never before seen anything like it.

  
I am yet to decide if I like him or not.

  
I do not trust him. That goes without saying. But Elrohir does and I do trust Elrohir. At least where my Father is concerned. Elrohir has promised me he would let no one close to Father who would hurt him. But sometimes I wonder if he would even know. Elrohir loves these new mortals we are about to meet. Perhaps he will not see them clearly?

  
I think Eldarion has decided I am young and foolish. He looks at me as if he wonders why I am here at all.

  
I surprised then, when as I sit and watch the sunrise, he sits next to me.

  
He sits in silence and I suppose I should greet him but what to say? I am unsure even what language to address him in. He speaks Sindarin but it is rough and odd sounding to my ears. Sometimes I struggle to follow him. It leaves me wondering how well he actually knows it and if, perhaps, I should speak Westron instead. I do know it. In the end I spend so long second-guessing myself what I should do he speaks first.

  
“You are up early.”

  
“I do not need to sleep. I am an elf.” Has he not noticed that before? The fact we need less sleep than mortals? He knows my Father so surely he has. Why then does he question my early waking?

  
And he sighs which makes me think I have said something wrong, but what?

  
“And my mother is an elf,” he replies, “so I _do_ know that.”

  
His mother. Elrohir’s sister—the one who chose to die.

  
“Did she still sleep as we do then?” I ask before I can stop myself, “when she chose not be an elf at all?” I really want to know. I am curious how that worked . . . How you stop being immortal and die.

  
But he is not happy I ask it.

  
“Do you really think she stopped being an elf just because she loved my father? How would that even work? Do you think she woke up one morning and her ears had turned to these?” He indicates his strange rounded ones. “She was still Elven. You do not have to be immortal to be Elven.”

  
What nonsense. Of course you do. I am not going to answer his questions because I do not think he even wants me to and if he is going to make fun of me by saying such ridiculous statements I will just change the subject, even if my mind is blank so I must pluck something to say out of thin air.

  
“I have seen some of your mother’s things.” I tell him, “and her drawings. I have seen pictures she drew of you.”  
It is all I can think of under pressure but what a foolish thing to say. No wonder he thinks me a child.

  
“What do you mean?” He frowns at me. “What things?”

  
There is nothing for it but to explain and hope I manage to make myself look more like the man I am than the bumbling fool my words turn me into.

  
“Elladan had a flet. He built it because it felt like Lothlorien and he would take me there when I was a boy. We camped out there under the stars. He would cook me breakfast.” I realise I am babbling and have said nothing about his mother. I wish I knew how to talk to mortals.

  
“He had a chest with her things there.” Finally I get to the point. “Special things. He would show me them and talk about her. Elrohir did not like to so he would talk to me when I was there.”

  
Eldarion leans forward intently then. I have somehow managed to say something that interests him.

  
“He had her sketchbook? Where is it now? Is it still there?”

  
“I would guess he has it here. He would not leave anything like that behind in Valinor.”

  
Eldarion leans back then. He sighs and turns his face to the sun.

  
“You are lucky.” He says. I have no idea why he thinks me lucky at all. He must have seen his mother’s drawings also, and is she not here now in any case?

  
Is he mocking me again? His accent makes it difficult to tell.

  
“Why?”

  
“Because,” he sighs, “you got to camp in the trees with Elladan. Because he cooked you breakfasts and told you secrets. I never did that. With Legolas, yes, but not Elladan. He did not see me when I was a boy, only later . . . When I was too old for camping adventures.”

  
“Did not see you? But they visited you. Father has told me they often visited and he lived near you . . . Did he not?” Suddenly I wonder if I have got it wrong all this time. Father has shown me maps of Arda as it was. I am sure it was not far from where he lived to Aragorn the King.

  
I feel very uneducated and stupid.

  
“They visited,” He says, “but I was one too many boy for them. One more who would age and die. They did not want to know me. Elrohir did in the end. Legolas asked him to and he did . . . For Legolas, not for me—in the beginning anyway. Only when I was nearly grown did Elladan spend time with me. I used to think they hated me when I was small. When I grew older I understood why, but still, I wish I had been able to share in adventures with Elladan like yours.”

  
I know that is true for Elrohir has told me of all the boys he loved who died.

  
I do not know what to say. He makes me feel guilty that I knew Elladan at all.

  
But he had my father.

  
I have heard the stories all my life about Eldarion. The things he did, the time my father spent with him. Everything we did together had a story connected to Eldarion in Arda. I used to hate it.

  
There are some pebbles on the ground beside my hand. Slowly I pick them up one at a time and stack them, balancing one smooth stone on top of another into a tower while I try to answer him. He is looking at me, I feel it. He expects an answer of some kind and I do not have one.

  
When I glance up all I can see are those curious, unusual ears of his. I wish I could touch them and see if they feel as ours do even though their shape is so odd.

  
How bizarre that would make me look. _Can I touch your ears because they are the strangest thing I have ever seen?  
_

In the end I send my carefully built tower tumbling, knocking it over in frustration at my inability to come up with a decent reply.

  
The anger from my childhood is all that is left.

  
“Well at least you had my Father. You had plenty of adventures with _him_.”

  
I am sick of this awkward conversation. I am sick of not knowing what to say or how to say it. I am sick of feeling inadequate and foolish because I do not understand him when everyone else does.

  
“What?” I have startled him.

  
“You heard me.” I pull myself to my feet. Escape is the best option. I do not want to have to stay and explain what it is to have a father haunted by ghosts.

  
I do not look back when I leave.

  
I walk straight into my uncle. I have taken barely a dozen or so steps when he appears out of nowhere in front of me.

  
“Why in such a hurry, Estel?”

  
He smiles at me. He does not smile often. He tends to be serious about most things. He smiles more since Elladan though I have noticed.

  
“I am escaping,” I tell him which is true.

  
“Escaping what?”

  
“Escaping mortals.”

  
He looks behind me to where Eldarion must still be.

  
“I see only one mortal—if he even is mortal any more—and he does not look threatening enough to warrant escaping, Estel.”  
I look back over my shoulder. Eldarion sits where I left him, head down, shoulders slumped, he looks . . . . Lonely.

  
I feel a pang of remorse. Perhaps I should not have left?

  
“I cannot talk to him.” I tell my uncle. “I have tried but I do not know how. I have no idea how you talk to mortals, but the way I am trying does not work.”

  
“You talk to them the way you would talk to anyone else I believe,” he smiles, “from what I remember of the Lakemen anyway.”

  
“He does not understand me and I do not understand him!”

  
“He speaks Sindarin, Estel. Of course you can understand him.”

  
But I cannot. Not as I think I should. Not as everyone else can.

  
“His words are odd. I cause offence when I mean none. Sometimes I cannot even follow what he says, and he says some ridiculous things,” I sigh, thinking of his statement elves need not be immortal.

  
And Laerion frowns as he looks toward Eldarion and considers.

  
“His accent is strong and confusing. I give you that. I too struggle somewhat over his words. Why not try your Westron, Estel? Make use of all those hours your father made you learn it.”

  
Indeed my father has spent hours teaching my sister and I Westron despite my loud and vociferous protests. No one else in Valinor learned it. No one even used it though many of them spoke it, but Father insisted. He was determined I would one day be in a position to use it and would not listen to those who ridiculed him for that.

  
He used to rope Elladan and Elrohir into helping me practise conversation though they both rolled their eyes at him. He did not care. _One day we will be amongst Men once more_ , he would tell them. I knew they did not really believe that—not as strongly as he did.

  
“Perhaps it will be helpful?” Laerion now tells me.

  
“He speaks to me in Sindarin.”

  
“Then answer him in the Common Tongue and see what happens.”

  
Well I will not do that now. Next time perhaps? I am over trying to negotiate things I do not understand. I came out watch the sunrise to have time alone, gazing at something that was familiar. I will go to the trees instead. They recognise me and I them, even though they grow in this strange land. Thinking of their familiarity just makes the ache I carry every hour of every day grow.

  
“Are you alright, Estel?”

  
Laerion has seen it. Laerion sees everything.

  
“Yes, yes of course.”

  
But he grabs my arm as I try to push past him and leave.

  
“Tell me.” He can be as demanding as my Grandfather when he wants to be.

  
But I do not want to tell him. It makes me seem childish and weak.

  
“Come on,” He is softer now, “come on Estel. I may be able to help.”

  
He cannot help of course but I tell him anyway. I do not meet his eyes, I look at the ground and tell him, and once I start I cannot stop.

  
“I am homesick.” It is true. I miss my home terribly. “I want to go home, Laerion. I ache inside for it. Every minute of every day I feel wrong. I just want to go home. Everything here is strange. None of it is what I know, but everyone else is happy. They all love it here. They all see things they remember, things they used to love . . . But to me . . .It all feels wrong.”

  
“Estel,” He tips my face up so I must look at him. “You can go home to Thranduil. You do not have to be here.”

  
I can not deny I have thought of that. My grandfather is still in Valinor with his Sindar. I do not know how long he will remain there but for the moment he is there. My sister stayed with him. She is far more Sindarin than I and has always loved our Grandfathers home more than our forest. I have thought of joining her. But it would not fix the ache inside me.

  
“Grandfather’s is not home, Laerion. Home is our woods and it is gone. I can never go back because everyone I loved there is here. I have no home now.”

  
If he makes me keep talking about this I will cry and that would be an appalling thing with that mortal still sitting where he can see me.

  
“I understand. I do Estel. I felt just as you do when I first arrived in Valinor. I can tell you it will get better but I know it does not feel like that now. I tell you what. I have some travelling I must do but when I get back we will go in search of the Greenwood; that will ease your soul. Just you and I—the ones that do not fit .. . Hmm? We will go find Iruion.”

“And my parents? They will want to see it.”

  
“Just you and I. We will leave them to enjoy their mortals we do not understand and find it ourselves! They can come later.”

  
“Elladan then?” He is sure to want Elladan.

  
“Not Elladan. He will not understand the Greenwood as you will. When I find it I want a Silvan with me.”

  
I realise what he said then—before speaking about the Greenwood. _I have some travelling I must do_. What does he mean?

  
“Are you not coming with us now, Laerion? What travelling must you do?”

  
“No, I will not come and meet this King of Men. He is not my favourite person, you know that Estel.” I do know. Laerion resents Aragorn-the-King almost as much I. Still I had thought he would go with Elladan, or to watch over my father.

  
“But you know, Estel,” he says, “Legolas has waited for this reunion for years. . . For centuries. He deserves it to be as sweet as it can be. I would only taint it bitter. I will stay away so he can have the reunion he wishes. There is time enough for me to speak my mind to Aragorn. This is not it.” He cups my cheek then with his hand. “You do not have to go. There will be many Men there. If it is too confronting for you stay here, go back to Maewen, come with me, wherever you choose but you do not have to go.”

  
I do though. My father has long dreamed of this and in his dreams I know I am there. He wants Aragorn to meet me, he wants to introduce us. He wants me to share in his joy. The fact I do not want to go does not matter. I would never tell him in any case.

  
“I will go.” I tell my uncle, though he looks concerned. “ Father wants me there. I will go.”

  
“Legolas does not want you unhappy, Estel.”

  
“I will not be unhappy. I will try your idea of speaking Westron to Eldarion and all will be well. I will go and it will be alright, Laerion.”

  
But I am trying to convince myself of that as much as him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Aragorn**

  
Eldarion has been away far too long.

  
What was a quick sojourn to one of the villages investigating possible sightings of the elves has stretched into days.  
I was uneasy the first night when he did not return but he had Daegal and his men with him, what could go wrong?

  
And then Daegal returned the following evening . . . With all the men and no Eldarion.

  
Daegal was my most reliable captain in Minas Tirith. I was relieved when I discovered him here with me. What was he thinking, coming back minus Eldarion?

  
“Where is my son?” I asked him.

  
“He ordered us to return without him, my Lord.”

  
“And you obeyed? Have you lost your mind?”

  
“He is King . . . That is . . . he was King. He ordered me as King. Do not think I did not protest but he is a boy no longer, Lord Elessar. He has been the Leader of our people. I am not able to over-rule him.”

  
I cannot believe it.

  
“Would you have left me alone, in this world we know nothing about, had I simply ordered it?”

  
“He is not alone. He had others with him and he was certain he was safe.”

  
“Others? What _others_?”

  
Daegal eyes flit quickly across my face, to the side so he does not look at me when he says the next.

  
“I did not see them. They waited beyond the village for him.”

  
For the first time ever since I met him all those years ago I do not believe he is telling me the truth.

  
Why?

  
“You did not see them?” I am as incredulous as he is adamant.

  
“I did not see them. But Eldarion was confident of his safety and ordered me to return. I was not in a position to disobey. We could hardly follow him, my Lord.”

  
There is nothing I can do. They are back now, Eldarion is out there on his own, and I can hardly challenge Daegal, honorable to a fault for all those years, on such flimsy evidence as a sideways glance.

  
Arwen is frustratingly positive. She has, apparently, no concerns about Eldarion at all.

  
“Daegal says he is safe and I trust him,” she says that evening.

  
“Daegal says _Eldarion_ told him he was safe. It is not the same thing. He also says he has no idea who he is with or where he goes.”

  
“Eldarion is our boy no longer, Estel,” she smiles. “He is a man. He has been a King for many many years. Long enough to be wise about ensuring his own safety. You need to give him credit, let go of the young man he was when you last knew him, and see him for the one he has become in our absense.”

  
Arwen accepts the changes in Eldarion with alacrity. She finds it easy to embrace the more mature, confident, composed son we find ourselves with, but I struggle.

  
When I last saw him Eldarion was a beginner in leadership. He was most competent and I had no doubts of his capabilities to lead our people, but he was untested. Not now.

  
Though happy to hand the Kingship back to me still he responds to me with a certainty and maturity that astounds me. Often it takes me unawares. I no longer know what to expect from him. Forging a new way to be for the two of us is proving difficult.

  
I have been left with no choice now but to wait . . . Just a bit longer . . . before I charge out in search of Eldarion. If only because Arwen looked at me with such disapproval when I suggested doing it immediately.

  
_One more day,_ I said to myself this morning. _If he is not back by nightfall I will go._

  
I am working out the back of the settlement when they call me. It is one thing I am enjoying most about this new life. There is no time for courts and Lords and endless meetings—no time for the machinations of politics. Kingship means I must get my hands dirty. I must be more like the leader of the Dunedain than the King of Minas Tirith.

  
“My lord,” The boy who runs for me is wide eyed and breathless. “My lord you must come quickly!”

  
“What is it? Catch your breath boy and tell me slowly.” What could possibly be so urgent here? As Arwen so determinedly told me last evening when we disagreed about the best way to deal with Eldarion’s absence, this is Arda Made New. A perfect Arda without evil. No armies of orcs are going to arrive at our doors here.

  
“Lord Eldarion is here!” Despite myself the knot that had wrapped itself around my stomach these last few days unwinds. He is back. “And he brings others with him.”

  
“What others?” My heart thuds in my chest. Has he found them? Surely he has not found them this easily?

  
“Strangers,” the boy gasps, “Beautiful strangers!”

  
Beautiful strangers . . . Who could that possibly describe if not an Elf?

  
I am running then, Pushing my way through the crowds that surge towards the gates abuzz with excitement. Who is it? Who has he found? A multitude of names flow through my mind. Elrond? Erestor? Glorfindel?

  
My brothers?

  
Oh I how I hope it is them, for Arwen’s sake.

  
Legolas?

  
The huddle of people when I arrive obstructs my view and at first I can pick no one out of the melee. Then I see them . . . Tall, noble, breathtaking, dark heads towering above the heads of the Men surrounding them, the crowd’s mutterings drowned out by Arwen’s cries of joy,

  
Elladan and Elrohir are here.

  
To me it seems only a short time since I last saw them. I remember that leavetaking; wretched, sorrowful, heart-breaking. To them it likely has been centuries.

  
They look different. When I last saw them they had been weighed down by the separation from their sister I imposed upon them, for so long, but now they seem taller, brighter, more magnificent if that is even possible.

  
It is Elladan who sees me first.

  
His smile is brilliant.

  
“Aragorn!”

  
He calls out over the crowd and it is joyous.

  
But it makes me hesitate. I stop for a moment in my sprint forward for he does not call me that. My brothers use my childhood name . . . Never Aragorn, not since my furious reaction when they first confessed my heritage to me. Why does he call me that?

  
He comes to me since I have paused in my confusion, so I have no time to think on it before he embraces me. It feels like coming home.

  
“Brother,” He holds me out at arms length and smiles again that dazzling smile I am sure I have never seen from him before. Most probably Elladan had the sea-longing the entire time I knew him although I am not sure. Is it the absence of that that has changed him? “So young!” he laughs.

  
I _am_ young. Younger than I was, and it is a relief to move easily again, to be able to do whatever I wish.

  
Then Elrohir is there on my other side, wrapping his arms around me in a very unelven fashion, but Elrohir always was more Man than Elf in his heart. I wonder how he has coped with Valinor? It is all overwhelming. The crowds stare, my Brothers accost me, Arwen is radiant. I am drowning in emotion.

  
“Aragorn, so good to see you,” Elrohir murmurs in my ear as he holds me. There it is again, my Dunedain name so strange sounding from his lips. Why does he use it?

  
And my sluggish brain begins to line these boxes up in a row. Elrohir is here. Where Elrohir goes Legolas is . . . . He must be.  
Elrohir laughs then as he lets me go.

  
“He is here,” he smiles.

  
They stand back, the both of them and then I see.

  
Standing behind him, bouncing on his heels as he always does when he is excited, fiddling with his sleeve, as he always does when he is nervous, shining his light upon us all as he always does when he is happy, is Legolas.

  
The last time I saw him I could not find the right words to say goodbye. Now I cannot find the right ones to say hello.

  
He can though.

  
His smile competes with the sun and he dances, just as I can remember, towards me. He has seen me and he is off.

  
“Aragorn!” The only one on whose tongue that word sounds exactly right. “They have improved your looks,” he exclaims and I laugh. He can always make me laugh. After dreary meetings, and tedious arguments it was always Legolas I went to to help me smile.

  
He does not engulf me as my brothers did. Instead he stops in front of me —he looks so well—he tilts his head in the way that is just exactly Legolas, then touches; the softest of elven touch upon my face, in wonder.

  
“You are back,” he whispers. “It is really you.”

  
“It is really me.”

  
“I always hoped,” he says, “most of them did not believe me but I always hoped.”

  
“I saw you,” I tell him, now my mind is working. “On the battlefield. I saw you.”

  
“And I saw _you_.” He is triumphant. I knew it. I knew it was him. I knew he had seen me.

  
“This is a surprise,” I stutter, as way of explanation of my lacking in conversation. “We did not know you were coming. It is . . . Overwhelming.”

  
“I told Eldarion not to tell you,” he chuckles. That is _so_ Legolas.

  
And I turn to Eldarion, to thank him . . To admonish him? I do not really know. He is smiling too, my boy, standing back, allowing us our reunion when he has already had his, and with him stands someone else.

  
I am taken back so many years, back to Imladris and my foster father’s council. We gathered to discuss the One Ring. There was a young woodelf there, wide-eyed, over awed, out of his depth. He struggled with our language though he spoke heavily accented Sindarin. I remember his confusion the day the dwarf trampled upon his carefully crafted arrows. I remember them brawling in the Great Hall, I remember him daring to tear strips off Glorfindel when he treated him poorly.

  
This boy . . . Man . . . Standing next to Eldarion looks just like that young Legolas. _Just_ like him. Just as overawed, just as wide-eyed, just as out of his depth.

  
And Legolas sees me staring.

  
“I have someone for you meet!” He cries, “Come here Aragorn and meet him.” He grabs my hand and pulls me towards the startled boy.

  
“Aragorn,” Legolas steps behind him, hand upon his shoulders he propels him forwards towards me.

  
It cannot be. This cannot be who I think it is.

  
“Aragorn, this is my son;

  
This is Estel.”

 

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

  
**Estel**

  
I have never known people to talk so much.

  
My Father, Elrohir and Elladan, Aragorn-the-king and Arwen, they sit and talk . . . And talk . . . And talk. I thought I had heard every story there was to tell about Arda as I was growing.

  
I was wrong.

  
And then they begin on our lives in Valinor. I do not need to hear that. I lived it.

  
I am not sure what to make of this King. I can see why people like him—there is something about him. The look on his face when Father told him who I was made me want to laugh. He was pleased I had his name, I could tell, and that almost made me like him . . . Almost. . . But he has hurt my Father and so I watch him closely. I have not yet made up my mind what to think of him.

  
He has done nothing wrong yet. He asks Father questions about everything. He watches him all the time, telling him how well he looks in every second sentence which makes my father laugh. If he knew how unhappy Father had actually been all this time in Valinor he would not say that. But no one is telling him.

  
In the end I get sick of it—listening to stories of the home I have lost makes me miserable, and so I leave. They are so caught up in each other I do not think any of them even notice.

  
There is a balcony outside the room we sit in that wraps itself around the building and so I go to stand on it and look out over this place of Aragorn-the-King’s. It is not a village—it is too big to be called that, but not is it a city . . . Nowhere near. A town I guess you would have to call it. There are so many Men here in such a small space and I am not good with small spaces at the best of times. I miss our woods with all my heart. The stars above me are the same at least .. . Well the same as the ones over our new home in the forest by the sea. They are different from the ones I grew up with in Valinor though and that hurts.

  
“Why are you out here?”

  
I am so caught up with the beautiful wrongness of the stars the voice makes me jump and I am ashamed of myself. This is no elf who has crept up on me but instead a human girl. I should have heard her.

  
“Why are you not in there with our parents and my uncles?”

  
So she is Aragorn and Arwens daughter then. Eldarion’s sister. She does not look much like him. There is a fire to her he does not have—her eyes dance with it—and she reminds me of someone but the knowledge of who that might be floats just outside my reach.

  
I shrug my shoulders instead of giving her an answer. I do not owe her anything and I am not going to tell her of my loneliness. But my silence does not daunt her.

  
“Will you tell me of Valinor?” she says, and somehow it seems more of a command than a question. “I have always wanted to see it.”

  
“They talk about Valinor now,” I say, “You should go in there if you wish to hear it.”

  
But she shakes her head sending her long wild curls flying about her face.

  
“Oh they talk of day to day boring things. It may as well be Arda they speak of. I want to know what Valinor is like. What does it look like? Have you been to Tirion? Is it truly as beautiful as they say?” She pauses in the midst of her stream of questions and gives me a searching look. “It is so strange you having my father’s name. It seems wrong to call you that.”

  
“It does not seem wrong to me!” I bite back. “To me It is _my_ name, not his.”

  
I expect her to apologise or perhaps be offended by my bad temper but instead she tosses her head and grins at me.

  
“No need to be like that,” she laughs. “Your temper is as bad as they say mine is.”

  
I can only stare. I do not know how to take her. Are all mannish girls like this? She is so very direct.

  
“I am Tinu.” She sticks a hand out towards me. I know what she does for I have seen my father do this . . . Shaking hands to say hello. It is something he learned in Arda and never got out of the habit of. Still I know what she expects me to do and I grasp it. Tinu means _spark_ in my language. It is very apt for she is full of sparks. Still, she was critical of my name so I shall respond in kind.

  
“Tinu? That is not very Princess-like.” She is a princess after all.

  
“Who wants to be a princess?” She laughs. “Not me. My sister is princess enough for both of us. It was Legolas who first called me Tinu and I like it.”

  
“Leave him alone, Tinu.”

  
When I spin around I see it is Eldarion striding towards us, who admonishes his sister.

  
“Estel has only just arrived. Do not badger him to death this early in the visit.”

  
“I asked about Valinor. That is not a crime, Eldarion.”

  
And he answers her the exact same way I did.

  
“If you wish to know of Valinor you should be in the room with Mother, Father, and Legolas. They speak of it right now.”

  
She rolls her eyes at him.

  
“They speak of boring, tedious, ordinary things. That is not what I wish to know.”

  
“Details of the lives of those you love—the way they lived day to day, is not tedious, Tinu.” He sighs.

  
“You say that because you never had it.” She hoists herself up to sit upon the railing which makes me nervous. Just how good is the balance of these Men? “You never had it and pined for it, but I never _wanted_ it Eldarion. You were a King! You could have had a life of such excitement. You could have done anything, and you wasted it moping after ordinariness.”

  
I have landed myself in the middle of a fight between brother and sister and I understand nothing they argue about. It is most uncomfortable.

  
“Being a King is not the fun you think it is!” Eldarion’s voice seeps with bitterness but it washes over Tinu and she pays it no heed.

  
“It is more fun than being _nothing_.” She spits back.

  
I begin to look for ways to escape but I see none.

  
It is Tinu who saves me in the end. She leaps from her seat on the balustrade and pushes past Eldarion to leave.

  
“You never understood me.” She mutters as she passes him. Perhaps she thinks I cannot hear her? “And you still do not.”

  
“And you never understood me either.” He says quietly. . . sadly, to her departing back.

  
She turns, just before she disappears around the corner and flashes me a grin.

  
“I like you, Estel-from-Valinor. I forgive you your name.”

  
And she is gone.

  
For a moment Eladrion and I both stand in silence and stare after her until he turns to face me.

  
“I apologise for my sister . . . I know she is feisty but she is also sweet, kind and caring underneath though you do not often see it. She has had to learn to be a warrior and fight for everything she has wanted to achieve in her life.”

  
I feel my usual awkwardness faced with navigating his strange Sindarin and the right words elude me. It is strange they did not with his sister. Her Sindarin sounded just as odd as his. Perhaps it is because she did not pause to give me a chance?

  
I will try my Westron as Laerion suggested.

  
“I have a sister. I know how it is,” I tell him.

  
The look of total astonishment on his face almost makes me laugh.

  
“Is it that surprising I have a sister? She is still in Valinor with my Grandparents but they will come out to join us when the Sindar decide to follow us here.”

  
“I am not surprised you have a sister,” He splutters. “I did not expect you to speak the Common Tongue! Who speaks that in Valinor?”

  
“Who speaks it? Let me see . . . “ I count it out on my fingers, “My Father, myself, Calithiel—she is my sister—and Rhawion begins to learn though I do not think you can yet say he speaks it. So that is . . . 4.”

  
He stares and I laugh.

  
“I exaggerate. Elrohir and Elladan can speak it, of course, but they only do when Father insists they practice with me or Calithiel. Many of the Arda elves _can_ speak it but they never do.”

  
“And so why do you?”

  
“Because Father was convinced we would one day be reunited with Men and would need to communicate with them. The others thought him crazy but he did not care.”

  
“But you do not need Westron to communicate with me. I am fluent in Sindarin. It is my mothers tongue.” He frowns as he considers it. Does he think I insult him? Well there is nothing I can do about that.

  
“It is not the same as mine. Sometimes I do not understand. By the time I have worked out what I should say the time to say it has gone. Of course, perhaps my Westron is as incomprehensible for you.” I shrug.

  
If it is we are doomed to endless heavy silences.

  
But he smiles and I realise I have not seen him smile very often for it transforms his face.

  
“Your Westron is impeccable!” He exclaims, “Although your accent is perhaps a little . . . Dwarven.”

  
That makes me laugh for my Father has told me it was Gimli who honed his Westron when they first met and Gimli who taught it to him again after his accident. It seems fitting Father has taught me how to speak Westron like a Dwarf.   
It is certainly easier to talk to Eldarion in, that much is certain.

  
“I take no offence from the feistiness of your sister.” I tell him. “It was you she was angry with anyway.”

  
“It is life she is angry with,” he sighs. “I hope it will be better for her in this new place, although I worry it will not.”

  
“Why will it not? This is perfect, this place.” Perfect for everyone but me, but I do not tell him that.

  
“She wants adventure. She wants to lead. What chance is there our people will give her that when they would not before? The place has changed but they have not.”

  
That confuses me.

  
“She wants to lead and you did not.” That was obvious from their argument. He did not enjoy being a King. “Why did you not just let her? Would she have been bad at it? Was she not suited?”

  
It makes no sense. My Father leads our people and not Laerion, even though Father is younger. Laerion does not wish to. He is happy the way things are, and Father is more connected to the Silvans anyway.

  
“Well she is not suited now.” He says. “But had she been trained from the beginning as I was, well she would have made a fine leader . . . She still could. But I could not just hand the Kingship to Tinu. No one would have accepted that. Had I stepped aside, Elboron, Faramir’s son would have been Steward until my nephews—my other sister’s sons—were of age. It would never have been Tinu’s. She is female, Estel.”

  
“And?” I fail to see why that is relevant at all.

  
“And it would not have been accepted.”

  
“That is no reason!” I cry. “Not if she was suitable. My Mother is as much our people’s leader as my Father. She is as good at it, if not better at some things.”

  
“Well then the Silvan’s are more enlightened than we are. But the rest of your people.... I think not. You do not get to be condescending about this Estel. Ask yourself . . . Why was Galadriel never Queen?”

  
I have never even thought of it. Why was she not?

  
“The Noldor are not my people.”

  
It is no answer at all but it is all I have to say.

  
He laughs then which is strange.

  
“You sound just like Legolas.” He smiles. “The number of times I heard him say that.”

  
“Well they are not,” I protest, “so of course he would say it!”

  
“Tell me,” Eldarion leans out across the balcony railing and again I get that feeling of nervousness about these Men and their ability to balance. “why did he believe so strongly he would see us again? Why . . . To the point of teaching you a language you would likely never use?”

  
The answer to his question about Galadriel was impossible but this one is easy.

  
“To keep himself alive.”

  
“What?”

  
“To enable him to put one foot in front of the other. To keep him with us. To keep the dark clouds that chased him, away. He has _not_ been happy.”

  
Sitting in that room in their reunion none of them would say that to Aragorn-the-King.

  
Out here under the stars I will tell his son.

  
“He had to believe it to stop his grief for all of _you_ from swallowing him whole.”

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for long time with no updates. A rather horrible real life got in the way of things. Some of which has ended up being reflected in this chapter.

**Eldarion**

I am finding Legolas’ son to be an enigma.

He is not what he seems at all.

He faces the tumultuousness that is my sister and comes out smiling.

He speaks to me in immaculate Westron, out of the blue, even if he reminds me strongly of Gimli when he does so. I am astonished.

And now he tells a tale of an often painful childhood, of an adored father so striken with grief it rendered his child invisible. Elrohir has already told me some of it but hearing it from Estel himself hurts all the more. His eyes flash with a challenge when he finishes his story. As if he expects me to doubt him.

“I am sorry.” It is all I can say. “I am sorry his grief for us has hurt you.”

But he shrugs off my sympathy.

“Why should you apologise. It was not your fault after all. Elrohir has made me see that.”

But still I have the impression he does think it is _someone’s_ fault. He does not leave me guessing who for long.

“You are not your father,” he finishes off.

“You cannot blame my father.”

“I can and I do.” He is all fire now. “He is the cause of it. He allowed their friendship. He made my father move to Ithilien so they would be even closer. He led him to the sea when he knew it would harm him.”

Who has told him this?

“Friendship is not something you can _allow_ or command. It just is. If you wish someone to blame for our parents friendship blame Gandalf. It was him engineered them both into the Fellowship. They were destined to be friends from that moment on and likely Gandalf knew that.”

But he shakes his head. If anything I have only made him more angry.

“And do not bring Olórin in to this! Do not use him as an excuse!”

He makes no sense.

“I have no idea who it is you speak of.”

And he looks at me as if I am ever so slightly mad.

“He has been good to us.” He says in the end. “He has watched over us in Valinor. He cares for us. I will not have you disparage him.”

Well I have no wish to insult any he might know and care for in Valinor that I do not know and nor have I. The conversation has descended into bewilderment, at least on my part.

I try to steer us back where we were—to more secure footing—away from this Olórin he is so passionate about who appeared out of nowhere.

“Legolas _chose_ to follow my father. What would you have had him do differently to stop that?”

“Everything!” He throws his arms wide to demonstrate his point. “He did not have to continue their friendship after the war. He could have left my father alone instead of dragging him to Ithilien. He _knew_ Father would grieve for him. He knew it and he did not care. He did not care about him, only about himself!”

That hurts.

I have not long been reunited with my father after years without him. I know for him our separation seems but a blink of an eye and that has caused us problems, but for me it has been years. Years without my hero, without the strength that guided me, without his love always at my back.

I think I understand a part of what Legolas has gone through . . . A glimpse. I watched my sister grieve differently from me—not Tinu but Gilraen, my other sister who has not a shred of Elvenness about her. Gilrean wept as we did. She mourned the loss of our parents deeply, but then, amazingly, she moved on.

While the pain still cut me like a knife, deep enough to leave me breathless when I stumbled across a memory, Gilrean would laugh at hers. Time passed and enabled her rememberings to bring her a joy that mine and Tinu’s never did.

Those years were an endless weight of missing my father in every little aspect of my life. Missing talking to him—discussing the latest troubles after a meeting, using his broad shoulders to take my load. Missing riding with him out across the Pelennor where he was at his wildest. Missing the simple knowledge he was _there_.

Now that weight has finally been lifted from me. Now he is back. I can leave this conversation should I wish, go hunt him out and ask his advice. After all those years of the pain of the loss of him I will not stand and let him be disparaged by one who does not know him.

“I do not know who has been telling you these stories,” I snap. “But they do not know my father and they do not know Legolas!” I do not give him a chance to protest though I can tell he wishes to. “Do you think my father could have made Legolas do anything he did not wish to? It was Legolas who asked to come to Ithilien. He was miserable in the Greenwood. He could not stay there with the sea-longing so he asked Father to find him a safe place. And yes—“ I hold my hand up to silence him as he starts to argue, “before you start on the sea longing, Father attempted to send Legolas home rather than take him to the sea but he would not go. All of it was _Legolas_ ’ choices . . . Not my father. If you want someone to blame perhaps it should be Legolas himself.”

“No—“ Estel begins to argue back but I am not done yet.

“You think Legolas did not control his own life? Do you think him a child who carried out my father’s every bidding without question? All of it was down to him. All of it he chose. Right down to Father bringing him back from the Doors of Mandos. Father agonised about that decision for decades afterwards but it was Legolas who chose it!”

I am so carried away with my words I almost do not notice Estel’s face has suddenly drained white.

“What do you mean? The Doors of Mandos?”

It stops me in my tracks. He must know about that.

“The accident in Minas Tirith. You must know of that. Surely they told you.”

Instantly he is defensive.

“I know. A wall fell on him. I know it. He cannot write because of it. Of course I know! What has that to do with Mandos?”

And I realise—too late—he does not know.

How can they not have told him this? I should not be the one to . . . But what can I do? The horse has bolted and it is too late to take it back.

I was only a child. I only know the very edges of this. My father would be better at explaining but judging Estel’s attitude towards him that would not go well anyway.

“I was a child.” I may as well continue now I have opened this can of worms. “About twelve I think. Elrohir and I were heading for the stables when they called for him. There was a commotion down by the walls. He took me with him because he thought it would be good for me, as a prince, to be involved. Had he known what awaited us he would not have.”

Estel stands pressed back against the railing, as far from me as he can get and he stares.

“A wall had collapsed.” I tell him. “A huge pile of rubble and someone was buried. All was chaos and they called for my Father. Elrohir told me whoever lay under there would not have survived but we had to try free them regardless. Then we saw Maewen. She was on her hands and knees scrambling through the rocks and she was crying. I knew then. I knew it was Legolas. Maewen did not venture into the city without him and where was he?”

I have to pause as the memories of that day flood my mind. I still have nightmares of it, that moment I realised it was Legolas underneath all that rock. I cannot look at Estel.

“It is the only time I ever saw my Father cry.” I tell him.

He blinks, and silently bites his lip.   
What does he care about the infrequency of my father’s tears after all.

“He was still alive when we dug him out. I saw his chest rise and for a moment I was joyful. He was an elf. Surely he would be able to heal. And then it stopped. There were no more breaths. My father, Elrohir, Maewen, my mother, were all crying. I remember Father yelling at Legolas to stay. It is all a jumble of horror, Estel so I cannot tell you anything clearly. I was only a child.”

“My Father did not die.” Estel finally breaks his silence, his voice small and tight. “It was Laerion who died and went to the Halls. Not Father.”

“You should talk to _my_ Father. He would be better able to describe it. He said he saw the light of Legolas’ fea as it fled and chased it using his healing power. That he found him in a glade, with Laerion, and bought him back because Legolas asked it.”

“No Laerion was dead. Aragorn-the-King has _not_ met him.”

But Estel’s voice quavers. I think he is trying to convince himself of that not me.

All I know, Estel . . .” my voice softens for I feel sorry for him, “is he was not breathing and then suddenly . . . He was.”

“You were only a child.” He repeats my words back at me. “It only seemed like that to you.”

“I have spoken of it with my father, and with Legolas since then, when I was grown.”

He looks up at the sky, over my shoulder, anywhere but at me and wipes a hand across his face. There may even be tears there. I would comfort him if I could but I do not think he would accept it.

I curse my loose tongue and my incautious words.

“Why did they not tell me?” He asks in the end and my heart breaks for him.

“Why did none of them tell me?”

And I am angry at all of them for it is not fair. 


	12. Chapter 12

  
**Estel**

Sometimes you discover something that is so powerful it brings you to your knees. The fact my father has ventured right to the very doors of Mandos, that he met my uncle there, is one of those things.

I cannot believe they did not tell me.

I go to the room they have given me when I am finished talking to Eldarion. He asks if I am alright and I tell him I am—even though I am not. My father does not seek me out and I am grateful for it. I imagine he spends the night talking to Aragorn and Arwen and I would rather he talk to them than me. I do not know what to say to him

My discovery is so big. . . So unthinkable . . . It has stolen my words.

They all lied to me, all of them. Not just Father, but my mother, Elrohir and Elladan, even my grandfather for he had to have known this. None of them told me. Not even Laerion—especially Laerion since it seems he actually met my father on his journey to Mandos.

I try to tell myself that cannot be true but I know it is. It is that which cements the reality of it all in my mind for I remember . . . I remember when I was a boy standing in my grandfathers study, Laerion tossing aside my grandfather’s carving of Aragorn-the-King saying he had met him and it had not been pleasant. I wondered then how he could possibly have met him. Now I know.

If only I had known then. It explains so much. All my childhood I had a scattered and struggling father . . . All those years until Finrod healed him. Had I known he had been left like that after a journey back from the place between worlds it would have made more sense. The pieces I spent my childhood trying to put back together for him might have fit. At least I would have known it was not my fault.

I do not sleep.

It is still too huge for me to deal with in the morning. I still do not know where to start, so when my father arrives, bouncing on his heels, radiating happiness, I say nothing.

The sun is shining. It is a beautiful day in this new paradise and eventually we, all of us, end up at the river that runs beside the town. There is a swimming hole there Aragorn-the-King insists my father will love. I sit myself upon a large sun-warmed rock at the very edge of the water away from the others. It feels smooth and hot against my skin, sharp contrast to the coolness of the water when I dip my fingers in.

It is slightly disappointing when Eldarion sits himself near me. I want distance today.

It seems the King is right. Father’s eyes light up when he sees the clear, sparkling water. Quick as a flash his clothes are deposited on the rocks and he is diving into its refreshing coolness. He emerges, dripping wet, next to my rock, leaning his arms against it, head and shoulders above the water.

“Come in,” He smiles up at me, “You would enjoy this.”

He is not wrong. Normally there is nothing I would like better—but not today. I shake my head and look around at the Men with us, Aragorn-the King, his wild daughter, Eldarion.

“I do not wish to in front of the Men.” I tell him in our Silvan tongue. “They stare. I feel uncomfortable.” It is true. Not of the King and his family but others in the streets gape at me as if I am an astonishing oddity. Some even reach out to touch me as I pass. It is very discomforting.

“It is only Aragorn, Tinu and Eldarion here,” Father says, “They will not stare.” But I am resolute and he does not fight me. “I understand,” he reaches up to place a wet hand upon my arm. “It is all strange. Tonight we will come and swim together just you and I under the stars.”

Then he is off, ducking into the water to emerge once again near the shore and Eldarion gives me a curious look. He wants to know what we say. . . Well it is none of his business.

“Come in!” Father is calling to Aragorn-the-King. “Come and join me.”

He may be a King but he is certainly very odd for though he removes his shirt he strides into the water still in trousers. Why does he do that? They will only get soaking wet.

“Still painfully modest I see,” Father laughs. So he thinks it odd as well.

“We are not all woodelves.” Aragorn splashes water in Father’s face as retaliation but then he stops. He stops and stares.

“What is this, Legolas?”

He has seen the scar from Father’s most recent injury in the Dagor Dagorath. It snakes it’s way across his torso winding around his side and is new enough not to have yet faded to a fine silvery track like the rest of Father’s scars.

“What is this?” He repeats himself, placing a hand gently upon it, cupping Father’s side . . . a loving gesture.

Father reacts as if he burns him.

“What are you doing? Stop it!” He snaps pushing the Kings hand off him. “You forget yourself, Aragorn!”

It is an unusual reaction I do not understand.

The King hesitates for a moment but in the end is undaunted. He does not address my father’s scolding.

“Where did you get this?” He persists. “This is a mortal wound, Legolas. How did you survive this?”

“It is nothing.” I recognise my father’s stance, arms folded across his chest he attempts to hide the scar from our vision. He is stubborn to a fault.

“It was not nothing.”

Aragorn-the-King spins around for it is Elrohir who speaks from the shore.

“It _was_ nothing, Elrohir.” There is an edge to my Father’s voice now. “I am well, I survived. Finrod and Finarfin healed me. It was nothing.”

Elrohir is not so easily put off.

“It was in the Dagor Dagorath,” he tells the King. “He survived only because of the skill of Finarfin.”

“ _Finarfin_ ,” The King murmurs the name like a prayer. “Finarfin healed you?” His hand hovers just above my Father’s skin but he does not touch him.

And Father shrugs, tossing his head and sending drops of water flying.

“Elladan called him and he healed me. What of it. You all are making much more of this than it was.”

“Why do you say that?” Elladan asks with a frown on his face. “I did not call him.”

“You were there. I remember that. Only you and Erynion. If not you, who else?” There is a bitterness to Father’s voice and despite myself I am fascinated with this conversation. I have not heard any of these details of his injury before. At home he has said nothing and my mother has not asked . . . At least not in front of me.

“Elrohir called him.” Elladan says, “I did not think it possible to save you. It was Elrohir who would not accept that and ran for Finarfin.”

Father’s eyes open wide in surprise at that. Obviously he had not considered that possibility.

“You came back then, after you left me the first time?” He says to Elrohir. He is unhappy with Elrohir about this despite his surprise, I can tell. Emotions and tensions swirl between them. It is decidedly uncomfortable. Aragorn-the-King obviously thinks so too for he interrupts them stepping in front of Father so he blocks Elrohir from view, taking his face in his hands so Father must look at only him.

“So it seems it was more than nothing, Legolas,” he smiles, “healed by the High King of the Noldor no less! And you fall victim to your usual habit of hiding your every injury from me. What a tragedy this might have been . . . For us to have come so close to a reunion only to have you fall at the last.”

Father smiles in return then, or perhaps it is more like a grin, all his tension with Elrohir melted away. Oh the King is good at this. My Father is volatile, even when he is well as he is now. Mother jokes when he is like that she needs Gimli for only he could ever get Father to see sense. But I think she is wrong. Aragorn-the-King can do it too.

Not even Elrohir can manage him this well.

“Ah well,” Father laughs, “You should be used to me minimising these things by now. Add it to your list of injuries, oh healer. Rohan, Pelennor—“

“Do not forget Moria,” Aragorn interrupts, “For I will not.”

“What happened at Moria?” Elrohir cuts across them, tension in his voice. “I know nothing about Moria. What happened there Legolas?”

Do I imagine it or does Aragorn-the King sigh and roll his eyes?

“Nothing.” Instantly we are back to this.

But Elrohir will not let it go.

“Why does Estel mention it then?” It is grating to hear him use my name for somebody else. “What happened in Moria, Estel? And why do I not know?”

The King throws a very pointed look towards Elladan before he speaks again. A look that says _Do something_.

“I imagine you do not know because the two of you were at loggerheads then making the rest of us miserable.”

Father laughs at that. A badly concealed splutter.

“That much is true, Aragorn.”

“But—” When Elrohir attempts to continue Elladan finally intervenes.

“Let it go for now, brother.” I hear him say quietly as he puts a hand upon Elrohir’s arm. “Ask later.” And Aragorn takes his chance to change the subject. A part of me is sad for I would like to know what happened at Moria too.

“As long as there were no more trips to Mandos,” he smiles. “I trust Finarfin managed to intervene before then.”

Mandos. The weight of that comes crashing down upon me.

I see it. My Father’s panicked glance towards me. I see it from Elrohir too. They know. They _know_ they should have told me this. The heavy feeling of betrayal crashes through the wall that has trapped my words all day. I am furious.

“Do not worry, Father. I know all about that _now_.” I call out and I do not even try to hide my sarcasm. “Such a shame you did not think to tell me earlier.”

The astonishment on the face of Aragorn-the King as he turns to look at me almost makes me laugh. Almost . . . But not really.

“Estel—” No doubt Father wants to apologise, to come up with some excuse as to why I have not been told this but I do not want to hear it. He had years to explain this to me and he did not even bother. In fact, if I am honest, it is more than just the failure to tell me of Mandos that drives my fury with him but also everything Eldarion told me last night. Father chose his life. He _chose_ his grief. He had options and he shunned them. He chose to have me too and leave me spending my childhood trying to make him happier.

“I do not care for any explanation you might want to give me!” I am shouting now and on my feet as the anger rushes through me. “I do not care!”

I am vaguely aware of Eldarion rising to his feet next to me.

“Perhaps you and Legolas should talk about this without us here.” He says quietly.

“Perhaps we should never talk about it at all.” I snap back though he does not deserve my ire. “Because that is what my father wished—that I would never know. I would just have to spend all my life trying to make things better for him—never understanding. Is that not right, Father?”

“Estel, calm down. Let us talk this through.” It is Elladan. As always he is our voice of reason but I am angry with him too.

“Where _were_ you?” I ask him. “You promised you had my back. You said you understood what it was like to have a father who could not even see you. You said you would be there to help me always. Where were _you_? Why did you not tell me? You did not have my back at all!”

My fury urges me to turn and run. I cannot bear to remain a second longer with any of them—not the confused and startled Men or the Elves I love so much who betrayed me. For that is what their silence feels like . . . Betrayal.

So I do run. I pull myself up into the trees and dance my way through them. Every breath I take burns a path through my chest, and I rage.

And when the rage burns itself out I hide.

I hear them calling me later. Elladan, Elrohir, my father. Briefly it makes me anxious, for my father will be worried. I am his hope after all and he cannot lose me. How many times has he told me that? But then I remember all those choices he made, my anger flares, and I stay hidden.

The trees love me. They are not like the trees of Valinor who have, I think, seen so many elves they begin to find us boring. These trees have never seen one. They sing with joy because I dwell in them so I climb up, and up, until I am perched in the very tops, the breeze whipping my hair across my face. It envigorates me. This place leaves me feeling so . . . Alive. The trees, their song, the breeze, soothe the edges of my anger and begin to replace it with a pure joy.

I can hear in the distance a roar which draws me. It sounds exciting. And so I move towards it. What I find, when I drop down, is exhilarating. The river—so calm at the swimming hole—has turned into a churning mass of white foam winding amongst the rocks. Spray wets my face as I stand and watch. It is so wild—like nothing I have ever seen in well manicured Valinor—and I begin to see why Father loves this place so.

There was a waterfall near Elrohir’s in Valinor that approached this but it was not so haphazard and untamed as this.

I have to touch it. The fierceness of the water draws me in.

I am balanced on a rock in the midst of the churning water, leaning over to touch its white tips when the voice calls my name.

It startles me, and in that moment, when I look up to see Aragorn-the-King with his daughter trailing behind him, running towards me, the movement of my body as I lean out across the water causes me to tip forward. It is a slow strange fall. I can feel myself toppling over, I can see the look of horror on the Kings face, I can hear his sudden cry, and I cannot save my self.

The water when I hit it is cold.

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

The cold takes my breath away.

Suddenly I am upside down, then I have no idea which way up I am at all but the breath I try to take is all water.

The rock, when I am thrown against it, catches my side and the pain is searing. Everywhere I look is the churning white of wild water that surrounds me and I tumble, ricocheting from rock to rock. There is no air anywhere and I panic. Where is the surface? Up or down? I have no clue. My stuggles to free myself are all in vain.

Am I going to die?

My thoughts drift despite the burning in my lungs and the panic. What will happen to me if I die? Will I still go to Mandos? Will I return reborn as Laerion did or are we no longer immortal in this new world? The panic to find air is replaced with another. Will I never see my mother again? Her face floats in front of my eyes . . . My sister? My grandparents, Rhawion, Erynion . . . My father . . . Are they all lost to me? It is a pain of a different kind, losing them. And it breaks my heart.

“Estel!”

The voice calling my name is loud and urgent. It cuts through the darkness I am floating in and to my surprise I realise I am still. The vicious, chaotic, pull of the river has stopped. I lie in one place, the ripples tugging at my clothing are gentle not mercenary.

“Estel!” There is heavy breathing above me and a voice I do not recognise edged with the same panic I have just emerged from. Then hands gently turn me over. I did not even realise I have been lying face down.

“Estel . . Open your eyes. Come back to me.” There is a hand pressed firmly upon my wrist. “Thank Elbereth,” the voice murmurs. “We have not lost him.” I did not even realise my eyes were shut. And suddenly; just when I thought this might be someone safe, I am on my side and he is hitting me—sharp blows upon my back. I try my best to push him off but it is a pathetic struggle I manage, then I am drowning again in water, coughing, spluttering as it empties itself from my lungs.

It hurts.   
Actually everything hurts.

Briefly I wonder what I will see when I open my eyes. Am I in the Halls? Is this strange voice that of Mandos himself? Is this what it is like?

When finally I open them the light is blinding, so long have I been in the dark. That makes sense to me for Námo is a Valor after all.

But it is not Námo at all whose face floats in front of me. Not unless I have lost my mind. It is Aragorn-the-King.

And he smiles.

“You have no idea how pleased I am to see you,” he says.

“Am I dead?” My voice is hoarse, almost a whisper, as if I have been screaming. Perhaps I was, underneath all that water? It is such a foolish thing to say but my mind is sluggish. It is hard to think let alone speak. Obviously I am not dead as he is here. But then I remember what Eldarion told me the night before, what happened with my father and I am filled with dread.

“Have you followed me to the Halls?”

His smile that was brilliant with relief fades in front of me as he sits back upon his heels.

“I have only done that once and have no desire to repeat it. This is Arda Remade and you are most certainly alive.”

It is as though a weight lifts off my chest allowing me to breathe again. They are not lost to me . . . All those I love. I will see my mother once more, my small brother, my father. I do not realise I am crying until I taste the salt of my tears.

“Hush,” He lifts a hand to wipe them off my cheek but it is a gesture so like my father it only makes things worse.

“I thought I would not see them again.” I desperately want him not to think I am a fool but I make a mess of it. My words are fumbling. “I thought I was lost.”

“As did I,” he says, which is not very reassuring.

He wastes no more time comforting me but instead runs sure, steady hands across me, down my legs, over my head,

“Nothing serious,” he mutters to himself, “how lucky are we? Can you sit?”

I do not know if I can, but he gives me no time to answer anyway.

“Let me get you out of the water.” Before I know it he has hauled me up like a sack of potatoes. It makes me gasp for there is not a muscle that does not hurt. He leaves me, head spinning, sitting on the riverbank leaning against a rock.

“It gets dark,” he explains, and I realise, despite me thinking the light was bright and dazzling it is actually dusk. “I will find us some shelter hmm? Stay _here_ , Estel. “

As if I am capable of going anywhere else.

It seems as if he is gone forever. My lungs burn, my head hurts, and I feel decidedly awful. _What if he does not return?_ I wonder. _How will I find my way back? How will I ever walk it?_

Then he is back.

Briefly he squats beside me absently patting my hand.

“I have found us somewhere.”

He kneels on the rocks near the river then, making a pile and scratching in the dirt. It is so strange what he does and when he lifts his head to see me staring he smiles.

“Elladan and Elrohir will see this when they come searching and they will know where we are. So will Legolas. Ranger signals.”

And suddenly my father is in the forefront of my mind and I am filled with an urgency that makes me attempt to stumble to my feet. That is a mistake. All I achieve is the earth spinning beneath me and an inelegant lurch onto my knees.

“We need to go back.” I tell him. “My Father will be worried.”

But he ignores me. He does, at least, pull me upright throwing my arm across his shoulder.

“It is too dark to go back and you are in no state to. I have no doubt Legolas will be beside himself but he has my brothers and Arwen with him to keep him steady. They will find us in the morning.”

Perhaps he does not know Father as well as everyone has told me he does?

“He will search all night. He will not wait until morning.”

“Then he would be foolish for even Legolas of the Woodland realm will most likely miss us in the dark. Elladan will not allow that. Either way there is nothing we can do about it now.”

He is most difficult to argue with. He gives me no chance at all.

He has found us a cave. Dry and roomy it is a good shelter even though being under rock is not something I enjoy. I sit and watch, miserable, as close to the entrance as I can get, as he sets us a fire and lights it. Only then does he turn to me.

“Let us see what damage lies under these wet clothes then,” he sighs as he reaches for the buttons on my tunic but that is going too far!

“No!” I slap his hand away with all the strength I have, which to be honest is not much. “Leave me alone.” I am not undressing in front of this strange mortal I barely know.

“Listen to me, Estel,” It is a voice of command. The voice my father uses on me when he gives me no options. “I am well used to recalcitrant wood-elves. I have bested Legolas in similar circumstances and I _will_ best you. I am not allowing you to sit here damp and cold when you have just had your lungs full of water, elf or no elf. You will get out of those clothes and you will let me treat the wounds I am sure lie underneath them.”

He means it.

I have no choice but to let him peel off my clothing. He hisses when he sees the abrasions that adorn my skin, the faint blue bruising blooming everywhere. It is no wonder I am sore. He takes some leaves out of a pocket, crushes them and smears the sweet smelling juices across my skin.

“Athelas,” he tells me when he sees me stare. It means nothing to me, but strangely it does help ease the aches that consume me. As I sit and watch him painstakingly treating every gaze I have a flash of memory. I have been here before.

“I have done this once already,” I tell him. I do not mean to speak. It just slips out and he looks up with a frown.

“You make a habit of jumping into rapids? It is hardly sensible Estel.”

“No, I mean these grazes, the bruises, remind of when I was a boy. I disobeyed Elrohir and fell down a cliff face. I broke my arm . . . But Elladan had hundreds of grazes to bandage as well. This feels the same.”

He laughs. It takes me aback. Why laugh at my childhood injuries? I am almost offended but his face, when he looks at me, is mischievous.

“You sound like me. I imagine that brought back some memories for Elrohir. I ran away once in Imladris. I was sick of being surrounded by elves all more beautiful, stronger, than I would ever be. I climbed a tree, one of the tallest, to show them I could do anything, but I got stuck. I was there for hours. In the end I got sick of waiting, tried to get down and failed. A painful journey down and a broken arm was all I got for my troubles. It was Elrohir who finally found me. I have hated heights ever since.”

And I remember . . . I remember Elrohir telling me that very story as he tried to distract me that day.

“He told me about that!” Aragorn-the-King looks pleased at that.

“We are kindred spirits then.”

And I remember who he is. I remember I do not like him.

“No.”

The look on hurt on his face when I say it leaves me with a curl of guilt in my stomach. Still, he says nothing, merely takes another handful of leaves from a pocket and continues with his work and when he is finished he hands me his own shirt.

“It is more important you are warm than me.” He will not let me refuse it. The shirt swamps me for he is broader and taller than I am.

He has a fish. I have no idea when he caught it. It must have been when he was away from me finding the cave, but now he cooks it on the fire. We have no seasoning or accompaniments, just plain fish but it is delicious. I did not realise I was hungry until he hands me a piece and sits beside me. Silently he pulls apart a mouthful slowly with his fingers before he speaks.

“I get the feeling you do not like me.”

What am I to say to that? There is nothing to say but the truth.

“No.”

He takes a deep breath then.

“One of my deepest regrets always was that I would never know Legolas’ children. I would never be able to care for them, as he did mine, when they were growing. To meet you now is such a joy. What have I done? And what can I do to make it right?”

I do not look at him when I answer.

“You cannot make it right.”

“Well I would like to try. Will you not tell me and give me a chance?”

“It is too late. It is already done.”

But I do tell him. Not because I want to give him any chance for none of it is repairable but because I want him to know what happened to my father after him. I have often imagined this conversation but in my imaginings I am angry and shouting, I am throwing it all in his face. That is not how it happens in reality. In reality, because I am tired and sore, My words are quiet and sad instead of angry.

I tell him of my father’s misery. I tell him what it was like for me when Father was encircled by the dark clouds that meant he could see nothing else. I tell him of the good days when I had a bright, happy, shining father—how happy that made me—and then it would all shatter as the grief engulfed him. I tell how—as a boy—I believed I could fix things. If I was just that bit smarter, if I could behave better, be quicker to do as I was told, work harder, then Father would be happy always. I tell him how . . . because Father feared suffering any more loss so very much, I was trapped within our forest as he held me close, trying to protect me. How I chafed against that until my Mother called for Elrohir to help. I tell him one of my crystal clear childhood memories. The day Elladan began teaching me the sword, rudimentary moves with a dull practice weapon and how Father screamed and yelled and raged at him when he discovered us.

There is still much more to tell when I run out of breath and stop.

Despite myself my cheeks are wet with tears. It is all so painful. Thinking on it never gets any better.

“Father has not always been as he is now.” I say in the end.

The King says nothing for the longest time and when I look up from staring at my hands nervously fiddling in my lap to see what he does I realise with surprise I am not the only one crying, for silent tears are on his face and strangely I remember Eldarion telling me only last night how he has only ever seen his father cry the once.

Then Aragorn-the-King turns to me and he does not hide his tears, he does not wipe them away as I would have done in embarrassment.

“I did not wish for that.” He says. “I wished him to be happy, to build a long, full life with those who love him, to run through the trees free of the sea and be Legolas. It breaks my heart, hearing this. It breaks my heart.”

And I do not doubt him.

“So you see why I do not like you. You should not have been his friend. It has hurt him . . And me, and my mother.”

“How do you stop a friendship?” Aragorn asks softly. “You meet someone and they grow on you. One day you are not friends and then suddenly, somehow you are. Then it is already too late. You cannot plan it. I did not set out to be Legolas’ friend. I set out to work with him together to protect the hobbits and destroy the ring, and somehow, along the way, the friendship surprised us.”

“Then after the war you should have left him alone!”

“Do not think I did not worry about this, Estel. I grew up amongst elves. I knew about their struggles with grief. I worried for Legolas when I realised the depth of our friendship. When he returned to the Greenwood a part of me hoped for his sake that would mean we would drift apart. But he wrote me a letter that was soul destroying. He struggled in the Greenwood with the sea-longing and he could not bear that misery. He begged me to find him a safe haven in Gondor to save him from it. What would you have had me do? Ignore that?”

“You should have told him to sail.” I have thought about this long and hard. I know what he should have done.

“And leave behind his father? I could not do that Estel. He was not ready for it. Believe me many of us over the years encouraged him to sail well before he did. We could not _make_ him do it.”

“It was your fault he had the sea-longing in the first place.”

He sighs heavily.

“Yes I have always felt that though Legolas is furious when I suggest it. I tried to send him home to his people. I tried. But he saw in my heart how deeply I wanted his company and refused to go.”

I am expecting him to protest and argue with me. It is a surprise when he so readily accepts the blame I lay at his doorstep. It throws me. I have a string of arguments to justify my position clamouring in my head. I have not thought what to say if he agrees with me. I am wrong-footed.

“I understand,” he says softly, “I understand I have hurt you though I never meant to. I understand we will maybe never be as I always imagined we might. But I want you know, if ever you need me, for _anything_ , I am here. Just ask and you have me. I promise that Estel.”

He gets up then and leaves me. He goes instead to sit at the front of the cave, poking the fire and staring out into the darkness. His shoulders Slump and he is downcast. I find myself feeling sorry for this person I have hated for so long.

And I find I would rather he sat next to me even if we did not talk. His presence is comforting.

But I do not know how to ask him to come back.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Aragorn**

Legolas’ boy is everything I always imagined he would be. Lithe, beautiful, ethereal, he is the spitting image of his father, but where Legolas is talkative and excitable, Estel is quiet and introspective. Where Legolas shines with a light that is almost blinding, Estel’s is more subtle . . . muted.

Now I see why.

He tells me a story that is heartbreaking. He tells me of a child lost in the midst of his father’s grief, struggling to make sense of it and failing. He speaks of a Legolas I do not recognise. There are glimpses of my friend in the father Estel describes but they are few and far between,

This is not what I wanted for Legolas. It is not what he promised me.

Is the boy right when he lays the blame all on me?

It is a long night and I do not sleep, though Estel does. So strange it is to call someone else by my own name. Likely he is not even happy we share it. He sleeps the strange openeyed sleep of the elves which so upsets my people when they see it.

I am just glad he is still here and breathing.

I could not breathe myself in that moment I saw him tip into the churning water. My desperate race down the riverbank searching for a glimpse of him seemed hopeless even as I ran, for how could anyone, even an elf, survive that maelstrom? I had only just been reunited with my friend for this? It would destroy him. I know too well about elves and grief. I saw how the damage and loss of their mother affected both my brothers, long after she had gone. For Legolas to lose a son? It seemed unthinkable.

And he was so deathly still when I found him, lying upon the rocks, in the shallows. For a heart stopping moment I truly thought he was gone.

Instead he is battered and bruised, covered in scrapes and grazes, but still here.

And he hates me.

I want him to love me with all my heart. I have daydreamed of spending time with Legolas’ boy as he did with mine, repaying all that care and attention he bestowed upon Eldarion. It is a kick in the guts to realise all that lies between us is animosity. Still I am not one to easily admit defeat. I will not give up so easily. With small steps I may yet win him over.

As the first rays of sunlight signal the arrival of dawn I wake the sleeping boy. Legolas will be out searching as soon as he can convince Elrohir to allow it and I would like Estel to look as healthy as I can get him when his father arrives, no doubt in a panic.

The sleep has done Estel good. Never, no matter how many times I am involved in their healing, do I get used to the rapidity of Elven recovery. He is pale and subdued but the smaller bruises already fade, the grazes blur. His movements are more fluid, less stiff. He winces less.

I have used my sleepless night to boil down some athaleas to a paste upon our fire and I slather it over him, much to his disgust.

“I do not need this!” He pushes my hands away aggressively—shades of Legolas indeed.

“I was not born yesterday,” I say calmly in the face of his fury. “Do not tell me you are well and recovered. Remember I grew up with elves. I have spent many a long year with your father. You will not pull the wool over _my_ eyes.”

“I am not a child.” He mutters sullenly, managing to sound every bit exactly like one.

“I would have you looking somewhat fit when your father arrives, so at least it seems as if you could survive the walk home.”

“I could walk home if I wished it.” It is said underneath his breath but I hear it . . . And despite his words he stops protesting.

He hears them before I do—of course.

Suddenly he is bolt upright. He still has my shirt on and it swamps him, making him look frail and childlike.

“I hear Father calling you,” he says.

I whistle. Long ago Legolas taught me the random collection of whistles his people used to communicate amongst the trees. They sound as fleeting as the chirps of birds and I have always been clumsy when I attempt them. Often I would reduce Legolas to tears of laughter as I inadvertently whistled ridiculousness, but with perseverance I have managed to somewhat approximate them. I have always thought it strange he would teach me this, while protecting his silvan language so fiercely. He always steadfastly refused to teach me a word of that.

Estel stares incredulously and it makes me smile. So I surprise him . . . Good.

“How do you know that?” He asks.

“How do you think?” I reply, and then they are on us.

Legolas is a whirlwind of anxiety. I am not elven, I cannot sense fea, but even a fool could feel the waves of tension that engulf us at the arrival of my friend.

“Aragorn!” He sees me first, but it is a fraction of a second only before he locates Estel, behind me in the cave, and I am forgotten, brushed aside. My brother follows, grim faced, a heartbeat behind, with Elladan on his heels.

And that reminds me, I need to talk to Elladan.

“Estel,” Legolas envelops his son. He smothers him in his arms. He holds him tight. I can only imagine the nightmare of a night he has endured waiting to locate us. “I thought I had lost you,” he murmurs it over and over as he rocks the boy, “I thought I had lost you.”

“How is Estel?”

The voice of my son standing silent and serious beside me makes me jump and drags my eyes from the cluster of elves in the cave.

“He is better than I expected.” I tell him. “He has survived relatively unscathed, a bit battered but nothing worse.”

Eldarion’s gaze as he watches this father/son reunion is somber.

“Legolas was frightening last night.” He says quietly. “I have never seen him so out of control, Father.”

He overstates of course. I can well imagine Legolas’ distress. I have been thinking on it all night, while picturing his anxiety. But I have seen him breach his control before. Eldarion, of course, was only a child during the nightmare we survived after Legolas’ injury in Minas Tirith.

“You know he struggles with control since his accident. That is nothing new Eldarion.”

“This was different. You think I cannot remember what that was like?”

“You remember it with a boy’s eyes and we spared you the worst. He will have thought he lost his child. Eldarion. We all of us would be uncontrolled in that situation.”

Eldarion, of course, has never had a child. That saddened me, that knowledge when I discovered it, that he missed out on that experience, on that love. He had his love and despite initial reservations we encouraged it—partly because Legolas argued so passionately that we should do. But she could not cope with his status, and the life that would lead them too. I hoped he would find someone else but it seems he never did.

How can he possibly understand the terror of a loss of a child?

“You do not understand the love you have for your child, Eldarion, and the terror of the loss of them.”

“You are not _listening_ to me,” He hisses angrily. “Once again you are not listening!”

Eldarion and I have been at odds since we found ourselves together in this new world. He has changed and I struggle to connect with him. Arwen has no such problems but Eldarion and I? We dance around each other awkwardly and sometimes I feel I do not recognise him.

“I _am_ listening. I am trying to explain parenthood to you.”

“Because I am not one. Yes I _get_ that Father, and I get it is a disappointment but that does not mean I do not recognise troubling behaviour when I see it.”

I never wanted him to think I was disappointed in the life he has led, even though I may be. Why does he think that? How have I given him that impression? Am I so transparent?

“You are not a disappointment to me, Eldarion! When have I said that?”

“No matter,” he waves away my protests. “That is not what we talk of. We talk of Legolas and I would have you take me seriously.”

But I want to talk about him. Still it seems he will not let me.

“Tell me then,” I say with a sigh, “what it is you want to and I promise to listen.”

“He was a wild thing. Elrohir must be black and blue from attempting to restrain him. Legolas did not care that he hurt him, with words and fists. He would have wandered through the night searching. It was an insanity trying to prevent that. We may as well have had to lock him in a room with Elrohir as a guard. There was no reasoning with him.”

This is nothing I did not expect and Estel told me as much last night when I said we would camp and wait.

“I have seen men who have lost a child,” Eldarion continues, “I am not completely without experience, Father, and this was beyond that.”

“You have never seen an _elf_ who has lost a child.”

Neither have I, truth be told, but I have seen elves who have lost. I know Eldarion is wrong to compare them and their grief to that of Men.

“I _am_ an elf!” He mutters, but he knows I can hear it. He says it to hurt me, and while true it is, at the same time, also not.

“Leave me _alone_!”

Estel’s sudden cry prevents me chasing my son down the elven whirlpool he has led our conversation too. It stops our discussion in its tracks.

Estel is on his feet and he is livid. All the Oropherion temper I have long danced around, and often suffered from, in my friend is there for the world to see in his son.

“I do not want this. You _chose_ this. You _chose_ your life and it is not fair I got no choice at all! I want to be Estel no longer. I am _not_ your hope. I am no-ones hope. I am myself. Leave me alone!”

With an agility that surprises me, knowing his injuries, he is off. Dancing between the lot of us as Legolas, then Elrohir, then myself, attempt to grab hold of him.

“Leave me alone!” He cries again as he sprints away towards that drafted river.

Legolas sits upon his heels staring after him, and he is stunned, the devastation of a child’s anger thrown in your face written all over him.

“Damn that boy.” I mutter.

“Really?” Eldarion is all sarcasm beside me. “It is not easy living a life shaped by the choices of those before you, leaving you no choice of your own. Perhaps you do not understand that, Father, but _I_ do.”

He turns on his heels and strides away.

“Where do you go?” I call after him. “Do not make this worse, You are a grown man. It is bad enough we have one recalcitrant child to deal with!”

“Estel is no child.” He shouts back. “And I am glad you finally see I am not either! I go after him to bring him back. Perhaps you could take his advice and leave us _both_ alone.”

He makes me blink in surprise and then he is gone.

And we stand, the four of us who are left, in bewildered silence.

“What did I do?” Legolas asks Elrohir in the end. “Is this all because we kept the truth of Minas Tirith from him?”

Truth be told I have no idea why they did that. It seems a foolish decision in the extreme but obviously they all of them have conspired in it.

He looks so devastated I cannot help but attempt to fix things for him.

“Welcome to parenthood my friend,” I smile gently. “It seems neither of us have a handle on it today.”

“Perhaps I never have,” he answers.

“The joy of loving the descendants of Oropher,” Elrohir says softly, as he wraps his arms around my miserable friend. “Their words can be more cutting than they intend. Perhaps Elladan can give us both advice on dealing with that. He seems best at it.”

Just what does he mean by that? 


	15. Chapter 15

 

**Estel**

All my life I have been told the story of my naming and the meaning behind it. I know it was the childhood name of my father’s best friend amongst Men, but I also know it was not a name Father ever used for Aragorn-the-King. I have never—in my entire life—heard him use anything but _Aragorn_ to refer to him.

My mother used to tell me how much my father loved me, how I was the light in his darkness, how I bought him hope when he had none. But I am tired of that. I am tired of being his reason for living. I am tired of my purpose in life being to maintain his happiness. I do not know if that is what she meant me to take from her story, but it is how I feel . . . It is how I spent my childhood feeling.

I have had enough.

All night I have thought upon Aragorn’s words. Upon how my father made his own choices. He was the one who created the life he had to lead in Valinor. He was the one who chose that. He had options and he did not take them.

That was his right. It was his life to lead. But it was _not_ his right, or my mothers right, to expect me to be the one responsible for bringing him the joy that made his choices bearable. I am more than that. I am more than ‘ _Estel, who Legolas must never lose, Estel who makes Legolas happy.’_

I am Estel of Valinor, Estel the Silvan, Estel Legolasion.

I am my own self and I would change my name if I could.

When my father arrived, with all his anxiety and worry for me, when he held me tight and told me he believed me lost, it all rushed back, all my childhood memories of his worry pressing down upon me, keeping me trapped and safe. But this time they are tainted by the fact I know it was all his choice. It was the result of his choices and his alone that meant he was so afraid of my loss.

And I broke.

I regret it now, as I sit by the banks of the river, watching it’s water flow, calm and peaceful, the opposite of the terrifying torrent I was caught within yesterday. I regret my childish tantrum almost as soon as it is over. For even I can recognise I am behaving no better than an infant. I do not know where they came from—those feelings.

Of course it had to be Eldarion who came after me. Why him? Why not Elladan or Elrohir?

He sits himself beside me . . . Not too near . . . But close enough, and says nothing. The silence stretches out until it is unbearable.

“I am sorry for that,” I say in the end. “You must think me a child. Honestly I am not. I do not blame you if you do not believe me though . . . After that display.”

“I do not think you a child,” is all he says and I am left to go on now I have started.

“I am so sick of it,” I tell him, “being a part of their story, tangled in their history, paying the price for their decisions. I just want my own life free of it all. I know last night must have been horrendous for my father . . . But his worry suffocated me.”

I probably sound like a spoiled, selfish brat.

“I understand.” He is very quiet when he speaks. “I understand what it feels like to have had your life robbed by others choices.”

“Because you did not want to be King?” I remember his sister’s words of the other day.

“Because of that, and other things.”

He does not elaborate which is disappointing because I am curious.

“I do not want to go back.” I sigh when it is obvious he will say no more. “I will find my own way home. I imagine the river will show me the way,” but he frowns.

“Not a wise decision. I imagine despite the display of agility you just gave us, you are stiff and sore. Perhaps you do not realise just how far the river carried you? We have horses with us. Riding would be preferable for you.”

“I cannot stand it. My father’s sorrow, Elrohir’s frowning, Elladan’s quiet disapproval. Call me a coward but I have not the energy for it today. Even if I have to crawl back home it will be preferable to that.”

He glances across at me then.

“What if I walk with you? I promise there will be no frowning.”

He makes me laugh.

“Well it was only Erohir’s I was opposed to. I do not recall mentioning a problem with yours.I think I can ignore that well enough.”

He hauls himself to his feet with a smile. “That is that then. I will go and tell them what we have decided. If I do not return, send a search party. I imagine the reception to this idea will not be a particularly enthusiastic one.”

Who knew he had a sense of humour?

He is gone a long time. I am just beginning to think I must go back and face them after all when he reappears, and on his face is a scowl. It does not suit him.

“That did not go well.” He answers my question curtly before I even ask it. “Come on then, if we must do this.” The edge of anger behind his words confuses me and I hesitate. What has been decided? Am I to go with him, or on the horses? I meant it when I said I would not do that.

He sees it, my uncertainty.

“Forgive me.” He says quickly, “Despite it being obvious you are not on deaths door and the fact I have spent years as one of the most talented healers of our people, my Father did not think me adequate to escort you. I had to disagree. Thank goodness for Elladan who can make anyone see sense.” He strides of ahead of me, beside the river. I am left to stare at his back. “Are you coming?” He calls back. “Tell me I did not expend all that energy shouting for nothing!”

So we are walking together after all.

‘Together’ is not really how it works out. He is angry, that much is obvious, and so I give him space. The tension in his shoulders tells me he is not feeling at all companionable.

It is not long before I begin to see he may have been right. This is not the most sensible decision.

I am tired. I do not think I have ever been so weary. My side aches where the water threw me against the rock. Every breath I take catches me like a sword. My legs feel like lead and my feet stumble. To make matters worse as we move up the river the ground becomes harder and harder to negotiate. How did Aragorn-the-King ever run this when he was looking for me?

I should ask Eldarion to stop but I am far too stubborn and prideful for that. Even though I know it is foolish I will not do it.

It is then I feel it, at the moment of a stumble, the gentlest of touches against my fea. It makes my stop and stare.

But no one is there. No one except Eldarion plodding on silently ahead of me.

“Are you alright?” He calls grumpily.

“Yes.”

It must be my imagination only, so I continue on . . . But not for long.

There is the smallest of ledges in front of me I have to scramble over. My chest hurts at the thought of it and I sigh.

The prod of fea upon fea is firmer this time, more definite. It is the touch of a healer. A shot of energy I truly need. There are tones of Elladan within it but it is not quite right . . . Maybe the trees confuse me?

“Elladan?” I call out this time and Eldarion turns to stare.

“Elladan is here,” I tell him. “I feel him. He must be following us.”

“Is he?” He is genuinely surprised. “I do not think so Estel. He went with the others.”

“I can sense his fea. Do you doubt me? I can feel his healers touch. It has to be Elladan. Obviously he did not go with them.”

The surprise fades from his face and he smiles. He should do that more often. It transforms him.

“You seem uncertain.” He says. “Do you not know him when you sense him?”

“Of course I do!”

He glances around as if he searches but he will not see anything. These men, my father tells me, are blind without the ability to use their fea to feel.

“He was the one who argued for them to let us go on our own. I see no reason to believe he would be here. He trusts me. Perhaps you are mistaken?”

“I know what I feel! I am sure there is an elf somewhere near. I am sure he is a healer, and I am sure I heard traces of Elladan’s song, different though it was. It can only be him. There is no other explanation.”

“Perhaps though,” Eldarion grins, “perhaps you do _not_ know what you feel. Perhaps all is not what it seems? Perhaps it is one who is not Elladan, but like Elladan? Perhaps they are a healer also? Perhaps they do not hide?”

“Do you see another elf here?” I throw my arms wide to demonstrate the emptiness of our surroundings.

And he laughs.

“Do _you_?”

He has lost his mind.

“No.” I snap. “I see only you.”

“Then you have found your healer.”

There is a rush then, a surge of fea surrounding me with almost a hug of light. It dances with glee. It is highly amused. It is Elladan’s song with a harmony of its own, and something else . . . The earth? The stone? The feel of Man?

It cannot be him.

It _is_ him.

“How do you do that?” I gasp. “That is not possible!” Perhaps I hit my head yesterday and this is a delusion. I sit myself promptly on the ground unless I fall. Perhaps I am dreaming?

“I do it the same way you do,” he smiles, as he sits himself down beside me. “Because I am elven.”

“You are _mortal_!” I do not appreciate being taken for a fool.

“I told you the other day you do not have to be immortal to be an elf.”

“But you do. You _do_. This is nonsense Eldarion. This is a trick you play and it is cruel.”

He is serious then. The smile fades and I find I miss it.

“I am a half elf.” He says. “Why should I not have a fea like yours?”

“Your _mother_ is a half elf.”

“Oh no,” he shakes his head. “You know better than that. She is called Peredhel but it is Elrond who is half elven. My mother is far more than that. Her mother was elven _too_ remember.”

I have never thought of that. _Why_ have I never thought of that?

“That means Elrohir and Elladan are not true half elves either!” I cry.

“No, they are not.”

It is mind boggling and confusing. It makes no sense and yet it makes perfect sense.

“How long have you had this?” I ask him, “this elven fea?” Now that I have felt it I cannot believe I did not know this the moment I met him. “Why did I not feel this earlier?”

He shrugs. “Because you did not expect it? Because you were not looking for it? I was nearly grown before Legolas discovered it. I have had it all my life of course. My mother knew it. She hid it from me, from my father, from everyone. It took me a long time to forgive that.”

“How could she hide it from _you_?”

“Because I did not expect it either. She never reached out to me, not like that. Not while I remember it. I wanted to be an elf when I was small. I believed I could be one. I did not understand the fea I had because everyone told me I was mortal. I thought I was a Man and that was all. But as I grew I was exceptionally good with the bow. I could aim with my eyes shut. I was good with wood. I used to spend hours carving shapes I could feel the wood sing with, I could sense things . . . People . . . Before I saw them. And I matured slowly. It was that which gave it away in the end when Legolas finally solved the puzzle my mother had known all along. I made such a mess of things because they thought I was grown when I was not. My father had to stand in front of his Lords and tell them he failed me as a parent to explain my misdemeanours. He told them it was because I was Dunedain that I matured so slowly. Luckily they believed it.”

It is an astounding story.

“Why did he not just tell them you were elven?” I cry, “why lie?”

He laughs and it is bitter.

“The Lords would never accept an _elven_ King, Estel.”

“Why would they not? What is wrong with that?”

“They did not want it. Give up their kingdom to an elf? That would never happen.”

“So what did they do then, when they found out?”

“They _never_ found out.”

“No, but—” obviously he misunderstands me, “when eventually you were King and they knew you were elven—”

“They never knew I was elven, Estel. No one knew. No one _ever_ knew. Except my sisters.”

“Your sisters . . . “ suddenly I realise why that wild girl I met had so much fire. “Your sisters are elven also!”

“Tinu is, yes. She has the fire of the Noldor.” He says it fondly. “But Gilraen? She is mortal through and through.”

I realise with a shock what he is telling me.

“You lived your whole life here and your sister was the only other elven fea?”

“After my uncles left . . . Yes.”

It takes my breath away, the sadness of that, the loneliness. A whole life, a whole world, and only one other elf. It is beyond my imagining, me—who has lived a life surrounded by elven fea in Valinor.

“How did you do it?”

“I did it because I had to. I will not do it again though. This life I will be who I am. I will be elven. I have not had to courage yet to tell that to my Father though.” He gives me a self deprecating smile.

“Would he mind?”

Much as I do not like him I cannot imagine the Aragorn I spoke with last night, the one who cried for my father’s pain, minding this.

“It will be as it was last time” Eldarion sighs, “ _he_ will not mind but our people _will_. The land has changed but they have not. Anyway . . .” He goes to stand and reaches down with a hand to help me up.

“Shall we continue on. They will all doubt me if our arrival is a second later than they expect.”

“But wait,” I tell him, “why did you let me know this now? Why now to reach out to me?”

“Because I am a healer and you were struggling. You could fool a man, Estel, but you could not fool an elf. I heard your heavy footsteps. I sensed your pain.”

  
As we move off, side by side this time, I can see nothing but his light, I can feel nothing but his spirit. It is the same as mine but different. Both familiar and completely alien. Brighter, wilder, more chaotic, so very Mannish at the same time it is so peculiarly elven.

I am fascinated.   
He is so different, his light so dazzling.   
A man that is an elf?   
It is unthinkable.

And yet . . .

Here he is.

 

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Aragorn**

I cannot pretend it is not a relief when Eldarion and Estel stagger through the gates. Such a foolish idea to allow Estel to walk. It is beyond me why Eldarion encouraged it. He is a healer —a truly gifted one—why did he not see the boy would struggle?

It was a decision that did not make any sense at all but when I questioned that all turned into a storm and he would not listen. I was not questioning his ability, I was questioning the wiseness of his suggestion.

I wish I could rediscover the art of rational conversation with him. I miss him.

Estel looks wretched and Eldarion’s defences are a mile high.

“You need rest,” I tell the boy gently.

“Where is my father?” He asks urgently as though he has not even heard me.

“Elrohir is with him. I will let them know you have arrrived. Go and sleep.”

“I will go and see him.”

For a boy who took tail and ran he is surprising eager to now sit and talk. But Eldarion grabs at his arm.

“Go and rest as my father says. Let Legolas come to you if you must talk. I will send him. Let him be the one who comes to you.”

“I was the one who ran. I was hurtful. He will—” There is an air of anxiety about him that concerns me and it seems the walk home has made him change his tune, but Eldarion will have none of it.

“You heard my father. He is with Elrohir. Look after yourself.”

I am surprised when Estel acquiesces.

“Eldarion,” I call him back as they trudge away, and there is the briefest glimpse of surprise upon his face as he turns. “Thank you for seeing him home safely.”

“I am glad you now realise I was capable.” His words in reply are a wall of bitterness I am not sure I can climb.

“I never doubted you were capable. Why would I? I doubted the wisdom of allowing the boy to do this. It made no sense as a healer, and I know you are a good one so your support of it made no sense to me.”

“He is not a boy father. I know he looks like one, but does Legolas not still look and act boyish as well? He is just Silvan, and they have problems. Surely you can understand that . . . Problems between father and son?” The sarcasm is cutting, and so unlike my child it makes me flinch.

“I _did_ realise walking was the wrong decision physically,” he continues, “I did advise him of that. But there is more to this than his cuts and bruises. I know you know that. I know you heal more than the body yourself. I have seen you. Estel needed space from his father. I understood it. I gave him it.”

He basically admits he needs space from me and that hurts.

Still I wait until he has turned his back on me before I am brave enough to say the next.

“I miss you, Eldarion.”

He does not turn around. He stands stock still before he answers.

“I miss you too Father. Your absence has been a gaping hole in my life. There has not been a moment I have not wished for your wisdom and your advice. I have been missing you for years.”

And he leaves.

“Eldarion!”

This time he does not turn back when I call.

He leaves me shaken. I did not expect those words. They take my breath away.

It is Elladan I head to. Elladan is an expert at being an anchor, a place of safety in the midst of a wild sea, plus I have questions for him; several of them.

“Come in,” he calls when I knock on the door, and I find him sprawled in a chair before the fire, a drink in his hand. Beer, it is—we as yet have no wine. It is a strange choice for an elf.

“Beer?” I raise my eyebrows at him as I close the door and cross the room to sit beside him.

“I think I have earned something stronger than water after the last two days do you not think?” He smiles, “and you have nothing else.”

Not for the first time I wonder what has changed with Elladan? I cannot put my finger on it yet he is somehow . . . Different.

“What is up with you?” He leans forward in his chair to pin me down with that uncomfortable elven stare. That, at least, is still the same. “You look . . . Rattled.”

“I have just discovered my son has missed me.”

“Of course he has,” he frowns. “You were dead and he was not. How did you imagine he felt?”

“It is hard, Elladan, to imagine anything of life moving on when you are gone.”

“Is it?” He tips his head to one side as if to look at me from another angle. “Perhaps that is a Mannish problem? I can tell you if you like. Not much, for we left him in the end, but enough for you to have a glimpse of the Eldarion that was, after you.”

It is not really something I want to dwell on. I find my mind screams at me to close my ears, but when my silence drags out he interrupts it, gently.

“I suggest you hear it, Estel. I think he needs you to.”

“Go ahead.” I shrug as if it is no matter to me at all, as if I am not intensely uncomfortable.

“He was a good leader, as you knew he would be.” Elladan says softly, “but I know you are also aware he was not as natural a leader as you. He did not enjoy it.”

“I did not enjoy it always either.” I do not know why I suddenly feel the need to defend myself and am not surprised when it earns me one of Elladan’s disapproving frowns.

“This is not about _you_ , Estel. You were gone.”

“Yes, I know, I do not know why I said that. Carry on.”

“He was lonely. Even before we left. He did not have the close friends to support him you were gifted with. Elrohir says Eldarion has told Legolas, after we left, the emptiness of the world without other elven fea was devastating to him . . . As it was to Tinu I imagine.”

He is right. I had my dearest friends. Legolas, Gimli, I could always call on them. I could slip away from the guards and ride like a wild thing with them upon the Pelennor to free me from the burden of Leadership. Eldarion never had that. It did concern me. And now I know he never had a partner, an Arwen, to aid him either. The idea of him alone, crushed by the weight of that leadership I know he did not want, hurts my heart.

“What would you have had me do?” I ask Elladan.

“Nothing.” He replies looking at me strangely. “There was nothing you _could_ do. It was what it was. Some of us have harder lives than others. But you can hear it now. I suggest you speak with him. No matter that you do not wish to. If you want to do something, let him tell you of this himself, and _listen_ Estel. You are not the best at listening when it comes to Eldarion. Not lately anyway I have noticed.”

“He is not good at listening to me either.”

“That’s as maybe but you are the Father.”

“We are both _adults_ , Elladan. Arwen is always telling me I must remember he has lived a whole life.”

“You are still his father, Estel.”

“He no longer wants me to be his father. He has made that clear. It irritates him. He has been too long without me and he does not need that from me. The problem is I do not know how to be anything else!”

“He does need that from you. He has missed you to the depths of his heart. I know. I have seen it. He never escaped the loss of you. I would find him, in your study, when Lords had been snapping at his heels, trying to grasp at the essence of you to steer him true. A gentler hand is what you need, Estel. Less controlling, more guiding. He is desperate for you. He has much to tell you.”

I wish he spoke the truth.   
But I am unsure if he does.

What does Elladan know of fatherhood?

And that reminds me . . . I know it is a swift change of subject but I have to ask him this. It has been on my mind since Estel spilled it all out by at the swimming hole.

“What did Estel mean when he said you knew what it was to have a father who did not see you?”

“What?”

I have surprised him. His eyes slide across me. He does not want to answer me this.

“You should ask Estel,” he says. “I cannot answer to what he means.”

I ignore his distraction. He will have to try harder to deter me than this.

“Because it seemed strange,” I continue, as if he has not spoken. “The Elrond I remember was attentive to the point of suffocation. He attended to everything I needed. He was there for everything . . . And I was not even his son. A more attentive father I could not imagine . . . Until Arwen.”

For after Arwen things were not good between Elrond and I at all.

“That is the point.” Elladan says in the end. “Child of Elros, of course he saw you.”

Now he has me on the back foot.

“What do you mean?”

He sighs.

“My father’s whole life has been Elros. Since he lost him at any rate. His library? Books gathered to search for the proof they could be reunited. The boys of the Dunedain he poured his heart into? He saw his brother in their eyes .. . In your eyes.”

“And you feel that was to your detriment?” This is an astonishing revelation.

“Do not get me wrong, Estel. I do not say Elrond did not love me dearly. I know he does, as I do he. But his focus was elsewhere. He could look right through me.”

“He spent hours with you in the healing halls. He taught you all you know!” I feel defensive about my foster father who cared for me so carefully.

“Yes, he did that,” Elladan sighs heavily. “And he loved my elvishness. But I was not Elros and it was Elros he wanted. That love for Elros, the pain of the loss of him, clouded all else in his life. It still does. Where is he now? Greeting his daughter? No. He is searching for his brother. I understand it. I _do_. If ever I had lost Elrohir . . . I cannot breathe just at the thought of it. I would be the same as my father, I know it. But knowing it does not make it any less painful to endure.”

“You all feel this? All three of you.”

“Why do you think Arwen spent so long with our Grandmother in Lothlorien?”

“She has never said any of this!”

“Have you asked her?” He says. Of course I have not. How do you ask about something you do not know existed?

“Elrohir was different,” Elladan continues as I sit there, stunned. “Elrohir Father saw too well. His mannishness terrified him and Elrohir knew it, from when he was very young. He spent his time trying to bury it, to hide it. Trying his hardest to make sure Father did not see Elros in his love for the world of Men.”

“And then I stole Arwen from him. From you all.” We seldom mention that. We all still carry the scars from that time and it is best avoided.

“You stole nothing.” He says, stretching his legs out in front of him, leaning back in his chair. “You loved her and all things considered I would have it no other way. So you see—” he reaches over to fill his glass, pouring one for me while he does so. “You see why I told a small boy who felt invisible in the face of his father’s grief, my story. I did not expect him to spill it to all and sundry, although since he is Thranduillion I suppose I am lucky it has not come out in the midst of a temper long before now.

As I sip my drink another question I must ask him floats uninvited into my mind.

“Why did Elrohir say this morning you knew best how to deal with the Oropherion temper? Have you been giving Legolas counselling?”

“Ha! No, I leave that for Finrod. I do not want to venture there!” Suddenly his eyes are alight and he is shining. So unElladan-like, so different from the Elladan I knew, so dislocating. “Elrohir gives me more credit than I am due,” he continues before he smiles at me. “You are staring. Is it my beauty that entrances you?”

“I am trying to work out what has changed about you. It has been bothering me since we met.”

“Nothing has changed!” he laughs, “I am an elf remember, we never change.”

But he has.

“You are lighter.” I tell him. “What is it? The loss of the sea-longing?”

“Oh I still have the sea-longing,” he waves my suggestion aside. “I imagine I always will. That is what Earendil tells me anyway.”

That statement is bizarre in the extreme. Why do they keep doing this? Throwing out nonsensical information that confuses me. I decide to ignore it for now. There are only so many questions I can chase up with him at once.

“If it is not the sea-longing then what?” If he thought to distract me with that nonsense he has failed.

“Ah,” If it is possible his smile becomes even wider, his eyes shine even brighter. “Perhaps you could call it love?”

He could not have surprised me more if he tried—I have never in my life heard so much as a whisper of Elladan and love in the same sentence—and my face obviously shows it for he laughs.

“Did you think I would remain a lonely hermit forever, Estel? Am I that unattractive?”

“You are not unattractive at all and you know it. Who is this? When do I get to meet them? I presume they are here.”

“Oh you have already met him.” His eyes dance as he says it.

Him? I flick my mind through all the elves it could possibly be.

“Imladris?” I ask him, “or Ithilien?” I can think of no-one.

“Neither.” He shakes his head. He is loving this.

“Lothlorien?”

“No. Come on Estel. I am sure you have not forgotten him. Your meeting was quite momentous . . . Although not, perhaps, very successful.”

“Stop with your teasing, Elladan, and spit it out.”

“Perhaps you should think more on Elrohir’s words? The ones that confused you so.”

He is back to nonsense then.

“It is hardly going to be Legolas!” I exclaim in frustration, “or Estel.”

“They are not the only Oropherions out there.”

I have totally run out of ideas. He can not mean Thranduil!

My horror is so transparent he reads my mind.

“Not _Thranduil_! What do you take me for? I will put you out of your misery before you have matched me up with Erestor. Laerion, Estel. It is Laerion.”

Laerion.

It takes me a moment to match that name to a face and a person.

“Laerion? Legolas’ Laerion?” Oh I do remember him and I believe he does not like me. Perhaps with good reason. To say our meeting was not successful is an understatement. It was a disaster. “Legolas’ brother?” I gasp, “Is that not . . . A bit close to home? What does Elrohir say to that?”

“Close to home?” He laughs. “That is rich from _you_ , Estel. Elrohir says very little. It is not his business.”

“But—”

“But what? He makes me happy, Estel.”

The Laerion I met is not the kind of person I imagined Elladan with at all but now he says it I can see what it is that is different about him.

He is happy. It is as simple as that.

And as I think back through all the moments of my life I cannot remember Elladan ever being as happy as this.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Legolas**

Some days my son and I can be each other’s joy. Some days, when we run in the trees, when we laugh at a joke only the two of us understand, when we get time to be _us_ and leave behind the rest of the world, we have a connection stronger than stone which no-one will break. On those days I feel I have done something right. I _am_ a father who is worthy.

And some days, like today, like yesterday, it all falls apart and I wonder if Estel would be better without my fumbling attempts at parenthood at all.

Now I sit, with Elrohir, and wait for Eldarion to bring my son back to me and at the moment waiting with Elrohir is not an easy thing to do.

It is all my fault. I have spent years . . . centuries, building back my self control—first with Gimli and then more recently Finrod. I have restored my mental walls until the cracks in them are wafer thin, almost invisible. I am almost myself again—a new self I actually like better than the old one.

But the thought my son might be dead destroyed it all. All my hard work, all those years and years of struggle and determination wiped away in an instant. Those walls that hold me together splintered and fell in a crash.

And Elrohir it was, who bore the brunt. Who steadfastly stood in the face of my chaos and stopped me destroying myself.

He did it because he loves me and I know I have hurt him. I am angry with myself for that.

Now the hurt hangs between us and I do not know what to say. Things are so askew with us at the moment. Our song is all discord and dissonance.

It is not just my words of last night. It was wrong before that, because the Dagor Dagorath haunts me.

I am plagued with nightmares. Every night I am back there, lying in the dirt and all is blood. It is all I can smell. There is so much pain.

And I am afraid.

All I can think of is my boy. My sweet boy who was so angry with me when I left for this war. If I never go back it will destroy him and so I struggle to live, each breath more difficult than the last, in an attempt to be able to return to him, even though I know it is futile.

Erynion is with me. Erynion, who has been by my side the whole of my life, quiet, gentle, Erynion. He is afraid too. I can see it in his eyes, and when I tell him, _Look after Maewen, look after Estel_ , He does not argue with me. He does not tell me I will be able to look after them myself.

“I will,” He says. “I promise you I will.”

There is only one person I want. There is only one person who can spread his light across me and ease away this fear so if I have to leave it is not so terrifying. I hear Erynion call his name.

But he is no healing balm. When he arrives he does not still my soul and wash away my fear. He magnifies it until it reaches up and chokes me. His eyes are wild and he is terrified. As terrified as I am.

“Stay, Elrohir, stay,” I plead over and over. I beg it of him. But he pulls the hand I cling to away from me. I remember that feeling, that loss of connection, the sudden absense of his warmth to be replaced by cold. It is imprinted upon my mind. The moment Elrohir left me.

I watch him turn and run . . . Away from me. He tells me he will save me, but as much as I desperately wish to return to my son I am afraid to be saved. I have been saved once before, by Aragorn. Although I do not regret that it has meant a long hard battle that has impacted upon all I know and love. I do not know if I can do that again. I am too tired.  
Afraid to live; afraid to die.

And that is how I wake. Awash in a sea of fear. The face of Elrohir asleep beside me does not soothe me. It makes me weep.

And every day the fear, the hurt, the memory of that moment of abandonment whispers in my ear.

“Do not be too miserable. Eldarion will being Estel back safe.”

Elrohir has decided to end the silence. His voice cuts across my memories and makes me jump.

“I know that.”

“You look as if the world is ending.”

 _It feels like it_ , I want to say but that is not fair. He is not privy to my thoughts. I can not talk to him about this at all—these nightmares. I have tried but every time the words fail me, the fear that rushes up to engulf me also silences me.

Instead I say nothing and stare at my hands.

I feel his annoyance as my silence stretches on. He loses his patience with me. It does not happen often, not any more.

“Legolas,” he sighs. “We will get nowhere if you do not talk to me.”

He does not understand and I cannot find the words to tell him.

“Perhaps we should not talk of Estel,” he says then, “Perhaps we should talk of last night instead?” By last night he means the anger I threw at him in my distress. He has every right to talk of that but right now the Dagor Dagorath consumes me. There is no room for anything else.

“I would rather not.” I tell him.

It is unwise.

“You would rather not?” His voice is laden with bitterness I am not used to hearing from him any more. “Well I would rather not have heard it but that did not happen.”

“Do not make me do this, Elrohir.” I am so tired and I do not want to fight. He will pull everything apart, look at it from every angle, try to fix me, but I have the ringing of a battle in my ears, the smell of death surrounding me, dread clinging to me. I cannot shake it and I cannot concentrate as he would want me to. I owe him that.

“You said you cannot trust me. Am I supposed to just ignore that?”

Did I say that?

“Elrohir,” I repeat, “I cannot do this. Not now.”

It has been a long time since I have had an angry, hurting Elrohir tear strips off me. A long, long time. It speaks to how badly I must have treated him during my loss of self control that now he loses _his_.

“You do _not_ get to shut me down!” He snaps. “You do not do that. You cannot attack me with hurtful words and then say nothing. What reason do you have not to trust me? Since we have been together when have I ever let you down?”

“The Dagor Dagorath.”

The words slip out past the ice that freezes my tongue.

“What?” The look on his face is one of utter astonishment. “How can you say that?”

Does he not remember it?

“How _dare_ you?” He cries, and I know it is his hurt from my previous behaviour that talks now, but knowing that does not help me. “How dare you say that. How dare you use that against me. Have you any idea what that was like . . . For _me_?”

The words crash against the icy wall of fear that has silenced me and shatter it. It all pours out.

“Do you have any idea what that was like for _me_?” I repeat his words back to him and suddenly, out of nowhere, I am shouting. “I am haunted by nightmares, every night . . . Every single night Elrohir, I am back there . . . Dying . . . Without you. Watching you leave me. Thank Elbereth for Erynion who was brave enough to guard me. Every night, every single night I must relive it. If I said I could not trust you that is what I mean because it tears me apart now. It tears me apart!”

It is only the choking of my tears that stop me in my tracks.

He is white faced with shock as he stares at me.

“I saved you,” he whispers. “I _saved_ you.”

“I know.” I do know that, and now Elladan has also told me it was Elrohir, not he, who called Finrod and Finarfin, knowing that should make it all better but somehow it does not. “Do you not think I have not told myself that a thousand times? It does not help, Elrohir. I have no logic in this. I only have my memory . . . That one memory . . . And my fear.”

“Fear?”

“I am drenched in it. It twists me in knots.”

In some ways it is a relief to finally say this. In others, it is terrifying. My hands are shaking and I cannot stop them.

“Why have you not told me?” He asks, “why do I know nothing of these nightmares. Why do I have to resort to an argument to discover it?”

“The words freeze in my throat. I have tried. I am too afraid.”

“Of _me_?” He is incredulous.

“Of memory, of what happened, of thinking of it, of making it real by speaking of it, of all of it.”

He does not understand. I see it in his face.

“I came back.” He says, “I went to get you aid and I came back. Does that count for _nothing_?”

“It does count but at the moment it does not help.” I do not know how to explain to him the difference between what I think and how I feel.

I know he fought for me. I know the only reason I stand here, the only reason my son was spared the trauma of my death, the only reason I am alive to experience the joyous reunion with my friend is Elrohir. I _know_ that and I am beyond grateful, but my heart remembers the fear. My heart is frozen in the moment of his leaving and as much as I tell it to let it go it will not.

As much as I try to steer myself down peaceful dreampaths every night I end up wandering through the horror. And that horror now clings to every moment of my day. I close my eyes to it. I turn my head from it, but always, always it finds a way through.

I cannot find the words I need. My language fails me. He looks at me, hurt and uncomprehending and I cannot illuminate him.

“Wake me,” he says in the end. “Wake me tonight if it happens and you will see I am still here. You will see I did not leave. I will wipe the nightmares clean.”

I see him anyway, awake or not and it does not help.

But he needs me to let him do something. That is how Elrohir works, and so I acquiesce.

“I will.” I do not tell him it will make no difference at all.

I feel worse than I did when we started this conversation. I am utterly and completely alone. The bewilderment on his face, and my lack of words, have placed us miles apart.

I cannot reach him.

We have solved nothing but despite that I am relieved at the knock of the door.

It is Eldarion.

“We are back,” he says with a tight clipped voice. So he is unhappy with me also. Him, Elrohir, Estel, they are all stacking up today.

I look past to hoping to see Estel but he is not there.

“I have sent him to rest but he wants to see you. He has tangled himself up with anxiety about your wellbeing. Why is that Legolas?

I have no idea. Because his temper has ebbed and he knows his words will have hurt? That is how it always is for me when I have been angry.

Elrohir is there before I can even draw breath. Always my protector but he does not have to protect me from Eldarion who loves me. Still, he does.

“Enough, Eldarion!” He snaps. “Estel was rude and hurtful and likely he regrets it.”

“Or he has a father who has relied too heavily upon him for his happiness and now he is terrified every move he makes will damage him.”

_What?_

“What do you mean?” I try to ask but Elrohir will have none of it.

“It is not the time.” He speaks over me holding my arm as he steps past Eldarion into the hall. “You have no idea how much it is _not_ the time! We will go and see Estel. You need to worry about him no longer, Eldarion. Leave it those who know him.”

“You did not have to do that,” I tell him as when we pause outside Estel’s door. “You do not have to defend me from Eldarion.”

“Today I did,” He replies. “You may think I do not understand what happened in the Dagor Dagorath but whether you remember it or not, I was _there_. Eldarion was not. I may be clueless but I have more idea than him. You do not need another disagreement today.” He reaches out to gently tuck a braid back behind my ear.

There it is. There is the love that I can shelter beneath. There is the light that scatters my enemies far and wide. There is my Elrohir.

“Now go and mend your boy,” He opens the door and gives me a gentle prod forward. “I will think on what you told me,” He murmurs as I go. “We will fix this. We have fixed worse, we will fix this also.”

He almost makes me believe him.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Legolas**

Estel is not alone.

The bright, luminous spirit that is Tinu is with him. If Eldarion thought he had sent Estel to rest he has another think coming. Being with Tinu is never restful.

I love her with all my being. She is impetuous, determined and oh so fiery, but restful she will never be. I wonder how she has got in here? Poor Estel looks completely unmanned.

“What a surprise, Tinu,” I say with a smile. I cannot help but smiling when I see her. It has always been so. “Eldarion just informed me Estel was resting. This does not look like resting.”

And she frowns. Tinu hates criticism and though mine was subtle she hears it.

“Is checking on him not allowed?” She defends herself, “I just wanted to hear what it was like, in that water, amongst the rapids. I have always thought it would be exhilarating.”

I can not contain my snort of laughter.

“Was it exhilarating, Estel?” I ask. The paleness of his face tells me it was not so.

“It was terrifying.”

“Well terror can be exhilarating.” Tinu says defensively. So says a girl who, despite having spent her life battling against the world, has never known real physical danger. She has no idea what terror actually is.

“I would recommend you do not try it.” I tell her. “And now you have discovered that kernel of information you can leave Estel and I to talk.”

“We were going to talk about Valinor,” she says sulkily. Her default is to challenge and she has never liked being told what to do. In her youth she drove Aragorn and Arwen to distraction.

“Later you can speak of Valinor. Now Estel and I speak of Silvan things. Secret silvan things, Tinu, which I cannot let you overhear lest Yavanna comes all the way from Valinor to strike you down.

“Secret silvan things . . .” she rolls her eyes at me but she laughs. “You talk such nonsense, Legolas, but I get the message. I will leave you. Until later, Estel.”

She is a breath of fresh air wherever she goes, but it is also a relief when that whirlwind of energy leaves the room.

“She is obsessed with Valinor,” Estel says to me as the door closes behind her. “It is all she wants to talk about.”

“Is it?” I am not sure why that surprises me. It really should not. “Perhaps I should try and get her there .. . Arwen might want to go with her to see Celebrian. I will talk to Aragorn about it.”

“I am sorry,” he says then, ignoring my musings. “My words were hurtful. I have made a mess of it all. If I had not run in the first place I would not have been near the white-water, I would not have fallen. It is my fault, not yours.”

“If I had been more forthright about what happened to me in Minas Tirith you would have had no reason to run.”

“Running was foolish.”

“Sometimes it feels too hard to stay.”

He is so like me in some ways, my son, _so_ like me. It is discomforting to see some of my weaknesses reflected in him.

“We can argue back and forth all day about the foolishness of taking flight when the going gets tough,” I tell him. “I am never going to criticise you for that. It is something I have failed at time and time again. You and I are the same in this. I think you have suffered punishment enough without me adding to it.”

“I punished you. Father. I did not mean it.”

“I think you did mean it. You were angry with me. It is alright to admit that. You are allowed to be angry with me when I have made mistakes. Elbereth knows, I make enough of them.”

“I did not mean you to spend a night thinking me dead!”

“I did not think that,” Well I did in the midst of the chaos but I am not telling him that. “I know you have not yet felt it, Estel, and I hope you never will, but I have, especially with Laerion. The world is split apart when someone you love dies. There is a gaping hole of nothingness where once they were. When I was calm I could still feel your song, as I can always feel it. When I was injured at Minas Tirith, before Aragorn bought me back, my father felt me disappear into that chasm. He felt it all the way in the Greenwood. I spent a night wondering what state you were in and hoping you were with Aragorn, but I knew you were alive.”

It is the most I have ever said to him, about both Laerion and the aftermath of my accident. Why have I not beforehand? Because I have this desperate need to keep him safe, away from all trauma. I never wanted him to experience the things I have had to. I did not wish him to bear scars such as mine. He was born perfect, every bit of him and I have wanted him to remain just like that.

But perhaps by doing that I have ill-prepared him for the world outside Valinor. It is easy to keep someone safe there. Not so much here in the wilderness that is Arda.

“I wish,” he says, “you had told me Aragorn-the-King had been with you to the gates of Mandos. I wish I did not have to hear it from Eldarion.”

“So it was Eldarion who told you? I am sorry for that. I am sorry it must have felt that he knew things about me you didn’t, when it is you who are my son.”

“It _did_ feel like that!” He seems surprised I have understood that. We do not talk like this often enough I realise with a shock. We used to talk about all things . . . All the minutiae that crossed his boyish mind. A conversation with Estel was a string of endless questions. When did we stop doing that?

“Why were you speaking on such a morbid subject?” I ask him. “Can you tell me that?”

He looks away.

“Estel?”

I have discovered whenever he does that it is usually something important he tries to hide.

“ _Estel_?”

“He was telling me your unhappiness was not the fault of Aragorn-the-King.” He rushes through his sentence as if saying it quickly will mean I do not notice he has even said it. He is out of luck.

“Why would he need to tell you that?”

He drops his head.

“Because I told him it was. I told him it was all his fault, that I blamed Aragorn for how unhappy you have been in Valinor. That he should have left you alone. That he should not have been your friend.”

“Why did you _say_ that?”

I am horrified.

“Why did you say that, Estel?” I reach out to lift his chin upwards, so I can see his eyes, so he cannot stare at the floor.

“Because I have thought it.” He bites on his lip. “I believed that was how it was.”

How could he have thought that? How have I let this happen?

“I wanted Aragorn as a friend,” I tell him. “I chose to live in Ithilien. I chose to see him often. I kept him in my life. It is not his fault. None of it is his fault. It is no-ones fault but if it were to be anyone’s it would be mine.”

“I know that _now_.”

“That is why you were angry with me this morning? Because I chose Aragorn as a friend?”

“Because that hurt me.” He says then. “Because him being your friend made you unhappy and that hurt me.”

I have known he has been buffetted far too much by the storms that plagued me during his growing years, despite my best attempts to shelter him. I did not know he had blamed it all . . . All of that . . . On my friend.

So I let go of his face, I sweep my arms around him and I hold him. What else can I do?

“I am sorry,” I murmur, “I am sorry I hurt you. I am sorry my choices hurt you. Do not blame anyone but me for that. Please Estel. It is all on me.”

This time he does not fight the embrace. He does not push me off. He does not shout and yell, he does not run, instead he weeps.

He weeps, and I wonder how I could have been such a fool.

I leave him to sleep in the end because Eldarion is right. He needs to rest. Valinor-born Estel is not used to injury.

I do not go back to Elrohir.

I do not have the energy for him. Elrohir is intense and bright-burning. He will be worrying over my nightmares. He will be analysing all he knows and he will want us to pick it apart until he can make sense of it. He will try to wrap me up and keep me safe.

But I do not want to think about my dreams at all.

Instead I wander around Aragorn’s new town looking for the trees. I am pleased to see he seems to have built it with more respect for greenery than Minas Tirith. At least there is some. Perhaps that is because he must account for the elvishness of Arwen now, something the builders of Minas Tirith did not need to do.

To my surprise when I search out an ancient looking oak in the central garden Aragorn is already there.

He sits underneath its boughs, leaning back against the trunk, long legs stretched out in front of him, and he smiles when he sees me.

“I hoped you would find me here. See I have remembered the pull the trees have on you!” He is inordinately pleased with himself.

I drop down to the ground to join him, laughing as I do so, for I too remember many hours we spent, the two of us, underneath the trees in Arwen’s garden analysing the world because I had fled there.

“This does seem familiar,” I smile.

“So where have you been?” He asks, “How is Estel.”

“Ah . . .” Do I tell him my son has spent his life secretly resenting him? “It seems he has drawn some rather confused conclusions about the impact of our friendship upon his life.”

Aragorn, being Aragorn, does not skirt around the subject. He confronts it.

“He blames me because you have not always been happy.”

“Yes.”

“And perhaps he is right.”

Well I am not having that. Aragorn has many strengths but one of his weaknesses is this need to take responsibility for everyone and everything.

“You are not responsible for my behaviour when you are _dead_ , Aragorn! We have been over this. I am my own self.”

“You promised me you would live your life well, Legolas. You promised you would put me aside and look forward.”

“I promised I would try, and I have done. I did not always succeed that is all. It was easier said than done, but I never stopped trying.”

“The last thing in the world I wanted was for your son to resent me,” he sighs.

“We have talked,” I tell him. “He knows better how things are now. I should have been more open with him earlier. I am not the best of fathers often.”

He laughs suddenly, out of nowhere.

“You can join me in that. I cannot even get Eldarion to talk properly with me at the moment. Elladan tells me I must try harder.”

“Unfortunately I have found Elladan is often right,” I cannot help but smile in return. Oh it is so good to talk to him like this. “I do not tell him that though. We would not want him getting ideas above his station.”

“About Elladan,” he leans forward intently. “What is this I hear of he and your brother? Is it true?”

How does he know that?

“Who told you that?”

“Elladan told me himself. I was trying to work out what it was about him that had changed. It had been bothering me since I first saw him. I now know it is as simple as the fact he is happy, and he told me Laerion was responsible.”

“It is true, and he _is_ happy. They are good for each other.” Elladan has been a different person since the day he returned from Alqualondë with my brother. But Iruion lurks secretly in the corners of their love and I worry it will one day all fall apart. I wanted Aragorn’s advice on this when first I heard of it, but now, when it comes to it and he is sitting next to me I do not have the courage to tell him I think my brother still has love for another.

“With all due respect, Legolas,” he says, “Laerion is not someone I would have expected Elladan to end up with.”

Aragorn has only met Laerion the once, in front of the doors of Mandos, and it did not go well. I am not surprised he feels that way.

“Will you do me a favour?” I ask him, “will you not judge Laerion on your last meeting. That is _not_ him. The circumstances meant he was not at his best. I think he deserves a second chance from you.”

“Will I get a second chance from him?”

 _I do not know_ is the honest answer to that question.

“Perhaps? If makes you feel any better I will ask the same from him.”

“Hmm . . .”

That is very noncommittal, especially from Aragorn, who is never noncommittal.

“For Elladan’s sake?” I try another tack.

There is a very long silence.

“For Elladan’s sake.” He says in the end and I know because he is the honorable man he is, I can trust he will do it.

“I have a proposition for you,” He says then, turning to me with a grin that makes him look boyish. “I have been thinking on it since you got here. How well established are your people? Could you spare a little time from them for an adventure?”

“An adventure?” He intrigues me.

“I had intended to go searching for my father. He must be out there somewhere do you not think?” He waves his arm to indicate the world outside this small town. “But now I think I should delay that for a bit and search instead for our third . . . for Gimli. What say you?”

“For Gimli?”

What say I? I say yes to that!

“Do you think he may be here?”

“Of course.” He says as if he will broach no argument. “We are here, you and I, Why would he not be? Can you come? I thought the mountains a good place to start. A cave somewhere, that is where we will find him. Sooner rather than later. You know how we are. Without Gimli to tell us to stop our foolishness we are bound to end up at loggerheads.”

“Without him threatening to throw us outside the city walls until we sort ourselves out we are done for.” I laugh, and I can hear Gimli’s voice, as clear as day, saying just that. “I have missed him, Aragorn, as I have missed you.”

“Truth be told it seems only weeks since I last saw you,” He replies. “The time apart for me has not been long.”

“And for me it has seemed an eternity.”

He drapes his arm across my shoulders.

“Together again,” he says, “The eternity is over. Now we need to make it the Three Hunters. Tell me you will come.”

I do not even know why he has to ask.

 


	19. Chapter 19

  
**Eldarion**

The thing I like most about this new world is that I get to work with my hands. It something I have always wished to do. I have always had an affinity for wood. It sings me stories of where it has been and what it wants to become.

We have started with nothing and we need accommodations for our people so I have eagerly put up my hand to organise the building of them, and organising means helping build them myself.

It brings me such joy. I get to spend all day, everyday, working with wood, shaping it into something we need, as beautiful as I can make it.

The sun is shining, the day is glorious, and I am bent over a saw, cutting a beam just so. It is perfect.

“What are you doing?” The light, melodic voice makes me jump. “Why is a King here working on the land?”

Estel stands grinning beside me. Here amongst my men he is disarmingly beautiful, as of course, all elves are.

“What is a prince doing standing here watching me?” The words are out of my mouth before I even stop to think. I regret them the instant I say them. Am I being too familiar? Will he take offence? Think I am mocking him?

But no, it seems not.

“I am not a prince.” He says, “I am just Estel. My father does not even think of himself as a prince either. Valinor was too cluttered, full of kings and princes and important people. They did not need the silvans joining in.”

“Well I am not a King either. Not any more and I am glad of it.”

He pokes the beam I am working on with a finger, almost cautiously.

“Do you want help? Can I do anything? I have never built a house. Well once my father and I did for Laerion, He is Sindar so prefers not to live in the trees. But I was only young then. Is it much different from a flet?”

His curiousity makes me smile. He is very talkative today.

“I have never built a flet. How would I know?”

Surely he has something better to do than work with me.

“You do not want to spend all your time labouring in the heat anyway. There must be something more interesting for you to do.” I tell him.

He leans forward then to whisper in my ear, A strand of silky blonde hair tickling my cheek as he does so.

“Your sister will not leave me alone. I thought to hide from her here.”

I choke back a splutter of laughter.

“Ah Tinu will not let you out of her sight if she has set her heart on you. She is nothing if not determined.”

“She has set her heart on Valinor, not _me_. She chases me from place to place and I have run out of interesting things to tell her. There is not that much that happens in Valinor to be honest. Lots of arguing by the foolish Lords in Tirion but not much else.”

He is so funny. I never realised it.

“Well if you are sure there is nothing else you would rather do I could hide you away here. But Legolas will be looking for you surely?”

He rolls his eyes then.

“Our fathers are busy planning some trip to the mountains which I am fairly sure does not include me so it bores me.”

“Elrohir?”

“ . . . Is worrying about Father travelling on his own with such an obviously adequate companion as Aragorn-the-King and before you ask, Elladan has been left having to convince him they will not walk off a precipice or some such thing if left to their own devices. They are both with your mother, all the Elrondions together. So you see, I am all alone.”

So I put him to work, and he is a quick learner, and a hard worker. He listens to everything I tell him intently and only needs to be shown things once. The only problem is the time he takes communing with the wood before he shapes it.

“I have to know it’s story!” He exclaims when I ask him what it is he does. “Did you know how pleased it is that it is you who works with it?” He drifts a hand across the slab of wood we are busy hoisting into place. “It can feel your fea. It knows you are elven.”

“My men do not know I am elven,” I hiss at him under my breath. “It is not common knowledge.” And he frowns, looking around, as I did, to make sure they cannot hear us before he shrugs his shoulders.

“Well the wood knows,” he says in the end. “Perhaps your men should too.”

He has brought no food with him. He says he needs none but I am not having that, so when we stop to eat I give him some of my own. We sit apart from the others, by his choice, not mine, for usually I eat with them.

“They make me uncomfortable,” he says. “They are perfectly pleasant but they stare. What at I do not know.”

“They stare because you are—” I am about to tell him he is beautiful before I stop myself just in time, thank goodness, for that would not do at all.

“Because I am what?”

“Because you are different.”

“They are all different. That one has a big nose, that one has teeth which are most unusually crooked. They are all different so why notice me?” At first I assume he is joking as he points out each of my men’s faults so deliberately, but one look at the genuine confusion on his face shows me this is not a joke at all. Does he really not see himself?

“Those are imperfections. They stare at you because you have none, because you are so perfect.”

“I am not perfect!” He laughs so loudly at the idea my men do all turn to look at him. “If you want to see perfect you should see Finrod! I am far from perfection.”

“Not in our world.”

“Do you think it then?” He turns to give me a stare that reaches right into the heart of me. “Do you think me perfect?”

The pause I give is far too long, because the answer is yes but I certainly do not want to say it.

“Well I have never seen Finrod,” I say in the end, “so I am no judge.”

And he laughs.

“Can you tell them to stop with the touching?” he asks. “It is worst in the streets and it is as if they think I will not notice. When I walk past them they touch me like this . . .” He brushes a hand gently across the skin of my forearm, just the lightest touch of the fingertips, just a glance, but it is electric. “It is most disconcerting” he continues. “Do they not know we do not touch each other like that?”

“They are curious, that is all.” The random ludicrous thought pops into my head that I wish he would demonstrate that touch again, but he does not.

“I am curious about them also but I manage not to touch them!”

And I make a mental note, _make sure to keep my distance from him or he will think me strange_.

It is a long day, our work day. We do not stop until the sun sets too low for us to safely see what we are doing. I did not expect him to stay until the end but he does. He comes up to me before he leaves, as I pack up the tools.

“It is still warm. I rather fancy a swim at that swimming hole your father showed us. Will you join me?”

“Are you sure you want to revisit the idea of water so soon?” Why did I say that? Sometimes I am beyond foolish. He invites me somewhere and I insult him.

“Of course, you most likely have your own friends you would rather relax with.” He turns away from me and I feel a sudden pang of disappointment. I would have liked a swim to finish off the day.

“I have no friends.” I call out to his back, not even knowing why I say it. It is not something I ever admit, even to myself, even if it is true.

And when he turns to look at me surprise is written all over his face.

“No friends? How is that possible?”

“Because I was Crown Prince and then I was King. A king has no friends. Anyone who wants to be your friend usually has ulterior motives.”

“Your Father has friends.” He says. “My father for one.”

“Well He was lucky. But we are not all as lucky as he. The closest I had was Elboron but he was still my steward and we were never as my father and Faramir were. Perhaps I am just not likeable.”

“I like you.”

He looks at me closely. He tilts his head to one side as if he tries to figure me out, then he puts out one hand. I know enough about elves to know a handshake is not what they do. I have never seen my uncles use one. Legolas must have taught him.

“Friends?” He says.

It is the first time in my life I have been offered friendship with no strings attached, from someone who does not see me only as a King.

“Friends.”

I take his hand. It is as easy as that.

He strips off when we get to the water, as Legolas did the other day, and dives into the depths of it to emerge drenched in it. The sun glints off his wet hair plastered down his back, sending shafts of light scattering across his skin.

“Come in!” He calls. “It is so refreshing after a hot day at work.”

But then he laughs out loud when I do follow him in.

“What are you doing?” He cries when I am knee deep into the water. “We are going swimming. Why do you leave your clothes on?”

“Because that is what we do.” I look down at my trousers. I am not stripping further than this!

“Really?” He seems to find it ridiculously funny. “I thought it was just your father who was so strange.”

“He is not strange!”

“Oh, because mine is.” His laugh is infectious. I know yesterday he was stiff and sore. He could barely walk, yet today there is no sign of it. He has worked a full day and still has the energy to send water flying into my face. There is the barest of marks across his chest where yesterday he was black and blue.

I am not subtle enough. He sees me stare.

“What do you look at?” He asks as he folds his arms defensively across his chest. “I have told you I am not perfect.”

“I am not used to the rapidity of elven healing, that is all. I could never tell you were so miserable only yesterday.”

“Do you not heal that way as well? If you are elven also?”

“I am mortal. I heal as a man.”

“You were mortal.” He says seriously. “But who knows what any of us are now?”

He is right, I realise with a start. Perhaps I am mortal no longer? Perhaps none of us are? Perhaps we all are?

“Well you did not have to go to such lengths to try and find out!” I duck under the water to escape the splash in my direction I know is coming, and look up at him through the ripples. They make the shape of his laughing face looking down at me bend and curve. Even then he is still beautiful. 

Is this what friendship feels like? I am not sure?

But then again,

how would I know?

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Eldarion**

Estel returns to my building site the next day, and the next. I find I am not at all disappointed by that but I do wonder why he is not bored.

“I enjoy your company,” he laughs when I ask. “Is that not what friends do?”

“How would I know?”

“Well I tell you it is. You can not be completely oblivious about friendship.”

He pauses in his work to stare at me. It is one of those discomforting elven stares which are impossible to match.

“I have been thinking about that,” he says eventually, dropping his head finally to concentrate on what he is doing, “your lack of friends and your elvishness,”

Why waste his time thinking of me?

“What is there to think of?”

“A solution . . . If you would take it. Why do you not come and visit me . . . In our woods. Learn how to actually be an elf. My friends will help you. They will not care what you are or who you are. Silvans do not mind that kind of thing. Perhaps you could speak with Laerion? He knows all about being a Crown Prince. He has been lonely.”

It is so incredibly tempting. To be an elf . . . Amongst other elves . . .

“I cannot go anywhere until Father returns from this trip to find Gimli.”

“So come then. We are not going anywhere.” He is insistent.

“How would I explain that to my Father?”

“With the truth.”

“It is not that easy, Estel.”

“See that is just the thing, Eldarion.” He crosses his arms as if he is displeased with me. “It _is_ that easy. You told me you were determined that this time around you would be who you were meant to be. You said nothing would stop you. Yet here you are, still hiding it from your men, making excuses not to visit the Silvans. It is as if you do not mean it.”

I feel wounded. I do not like hearing his criticism, it hurts. Not that it should. I barely know him so why do I care what he thinks?

“I do mean it. But I am my father’s son. I cannot ignore that—”

He does not even let me finish.

“But nothing. I do not believe your father would stop you. He is not my favourite person but even _I_ do not think he is that unreasonable. He has other options now for leadership if your people will not accept you. If you do not wish to be elven, if you wish to remain as you have always been, if being a leader actually _is_ that important to you, that is your choice, but you should be honest with yourself that you choose it. You should not blame others.”

“You are simplifying it. You do not understand!”

“Perhaps not.” He says, “but perhaps I _do_ understand more than you wish me to.”

He picks up his tools and goes on with his work as if our conversation is at an end. Now he is angry with me and I am unsure what he needs me to do about that.

I am surprised when he speaks again. I certainly did not expect it.

“Shall we go swimming again this evening?”

“Swimming?” I am astonished. “You are angry. Why would you wish to go swimming?”

“I am not angry. It is not up to me what you chose to be. My friendship is not dependent on you being elven.”

“It is not?”

“Of course not!” It is a brilliant smile he flashes me. “It is dependent upon you being _Eldarion_ , and Eldarion is whoever you wish him to be. If he is a Man he is still my friend.”

I have no idea what to say.

No one has ever said they like me whatever I am, that there is no wrong way to be—besides my family, and they have no choice but to love me anyway so it is not the same.

The water, when we reach it is crisp and cold against my skin. It is a relief after the hot sun of the day. This is the third evening we have been here swimming and Estel’s gentle mocking of my shyness to undress continues.

“I will turn my back on you,” He says this evening, “I will turn my back and close my eyes so you know I will not see you. Will you then swim properly?”

“Who says clothes are not the way to swim properly?”

“Everyone with a shred of commonsense!” He laughs. But he does what he promised. He covers his eyes, and he turns his back. “You know I have seen this all before?” he chuckles. “You do know we all look the same!”

I must admit, when I finally dive into the water, my clothes left on the bank, he is right . . . It is so much better.

I have never enjoyed a swim better. We have fun, we laugh, we race each other across to the other side, we are attacking each other, in the middle of a mock battle involving copious amounts of water—started by Estel who is a wild thing, when the voice rings out across our heads.

“What are you _doing_?” It is a voice laden with displeasure and unhappiness.

It is Elrohir.

“Unwinding after a long day, Elrohir,” Estel calls out, “Will you join us?” Does he not hear the irritation in my uncle’s voice? How can he be oblivious?

“We have been looking for you everywhere,” Elrohir snaps. “Your father wonders where you are. Come in now.”

“Now? Can it not wait?”

“ _Now_!”

He will broke no argument, that is obvious, but suddenly that very fact annoys me. Who does he think he is to snap his fingers and order Estel around?

So when Estel moves to obey I grasp his arm.

“You do not have to leave on his say so.”

“Yes I do. He is my parent. It is a reasonable enough request. What reason do I have to ignore it?”

“He is not your parent.” Has he lost his mind?

But he stares back at me as if it is I who has lost mine.

“Yes he is. Elrohir has been responsible for me, just as much as Erynion, and my Mother, and my Father. You can not have too many parents Eldarion. You have a lot to learn about Silvans!” He chuckles at my ignorance as he passes me.

“I think you very much _can_ have too many parents,” I call after him, and he laughs out loud then as he struggles back into his clothes.

But Elrohir does not laugh at all. He turns his back on me, striding after the dripping wet Estel, and I am left alone.

Not for long though.

I am in my room getting ready for dinner when the knock comes on the door. I do not know why he bothered to knock at all since he does not wait for me to answer before he enters. I can tell from that very minute Elrohir is furious.

“What do you think you are _doing_?” He hisses it at me through gritted teeth. “Have you lost your mind, Eldarion?”

“I have not lost my mind but I wonder if you have. I have no idea what you are talking about Elrohir?”

“You know exactly what I am talking about!”

“If I did I would answer you.”

“That scene at the swimming hole!”

I mean it. I have no idea why he would be so angry about an evening swim.

“What is it about that you object to? The day was hot, our work was hard. So Estel did not go straight back to Legolas . . . What of it?”

“Eldarion,” he sighs heavily. “I am not a fool and you are not a child. I saw the looks, the touches, I know what that is about. It was plainly obvious. You cannot do this. It is not alright.”

“I am doing nothing. It was you who told me you wished us to be friends, now you criticise it.” Too late I realise with horror just what it is he is thinking. What does he think he saw? “We were enjoying ourselves . . . Having fun. That is all, and it is no crime.”

“You cannot be this naive.” He rolls his eyes. “I know you are not.”

I am not naive. I am not an innocent. But that is not what Estel and I am about at all . . . Is it?

“You saw things that were not there, Elrohir.”

“I saw things that very definitely _were_ there. You are either lying to me or in denial, Eldarion. Whatever, it must stop right here.”

He makes me begin to doubt myself. Estel is, after all, beautiful. It is true I find my eyes following him. It is true an accidental brush of his hand against my skin makes me catch my breath but that is all ....that is all. But his words, those words ordering me to stop something I did not even know had started, enrage me.

“Since when do you have the right to tell me what I should do or who I should do it with? You overstep the mark, Elrohir!”

“I have every right when it is Estel that you do it with!”

“He is not your child to control. He is no-ones child. He is grown and I think he makes his own decisions!” I am talking as if there is a decision to be made in the first place which is ridiculous.

“He may as well be my child and he is an elf, Eldarion. Yes he is grown but he is still young, younger than you, who has lived a long life and then some.”

“Perhaps the problem is yours, Elrohir because you cannot let go of the child and see he is a man?”

“Eldarion—” he grabs at my arm because I try to turn my back on him. “You will not do this. It will destroy your father, and I will not let you do this to Legolas!”

This whole conversation has the echoes of another. One between Legolas and I, so long ago. These very same arguments except that time it was my own youth held against me. And it ended in me being sent home from Ithilien in disgrace. I am not doing this again. I am not letting someone dictate to me who I love or who I am with. I am sick of being shaped by what others want or others need.

“Get out!” I tell him, “Get out. You do not own me. You do not control me and you know what, Elrohir? I do not care if my father is unhappy with me. I am _not_ giving something up just to please Legolas. I have done that once and I will not do it again!”

“You are a fool!”

“And you are not wanted here!”

He is stronger than me. I found that out once to my cost in my younger years. I can not make him leave if he does not want to. Luckily for me he does anyway.

“Leave him alone!” Are his final words as he slams the door behind him, but I am seething.

I am so angry I do not even stop to remember this whole conversation is about something I do not know is real at all.

 

 

 

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday NelyafinweFeanorion!!

**Eldarion**

Going to dinner is the last thing I want to do.   
But I do because I have to and the questions about my absense would be even worse.

I am late, and that does not help matters. It means the only place for me to sit is next to Estel. Normally I would have chosen there anyway but with Elrohir staring daggers at me across the table and a whirl of possibilities in my head I would rather not.

And I am so angry I cannot eat a thing.

I poke and prod at my food while my father and Legolas laugh and talk together and all I can feel are Elrohir’s eyes on Estel and I, watching every move we make. It does not help when Estel, no doubt picking up my anger lays a hand gently on my arm. His touch burns me. It lights me on fire and I jerk my arm away.

“Have I done something wrong?” His voice is quiet, his eyes are hurt and it is Elrohir’s fault. More than a lifetime I have waited for friendship and now Elrohir warps it all and destroys it.

“No.” Quickly I shake my head, but I do not move my arm back near him. “I have a headache, that is all.” A convenient excuse that is not that far from the truth. I press my fingers into my temples. It does not help to make the thoughts that buzz inside my head go away.

“A headache?” It is not Estel that answers me but my Father. Of course he has heard me . . . Of course. “Are you well Eldarion?”

“Well enough. It is just the sun, Father, and a long day.”

“You are not eating.” Now my mother is watching me. I do not have the patience for this. I feel the weight of all their expectations pressing down upon me.

“Perhaps a day off from the building?” my father says then. “You have achieved so much there. Do not work yourself into the ground.”

“I _enjoy_ it.” The last thing I need is him getting it into his head to take the project out of my hands. “I will go and rest now. Later I will eat, Mother,” If I do not say that she will never let me go. “I am sure it will ease off with a bit of peace and quiet.”

“I am serious, Eldarion,” Father says. “Consider taking a break.”

“I have had a break, Father. Days of a break, when I went to find Legolas. The men do not have one, why should I?”

“Perhaps the men _should_ have one?”

“Then where will our people live?” I exclaim. This gets out of hand. My white lie is spiraling into something I did not anticipate at all. I am not in the mood to analyse our accomodations or debate logistics with my father.

“Our people will survive you and your men having a day of no work,” He says softly. “It will not be the end of the world.” He does not understand for me it is not work. Being able to build and create with wood is a joy.

“Perhaps you are right.” I say it to bring an end to the conversation more than anything. “I will give the men time off and there are things I can potter about and do by myself, small things that bring me joy. I will do that, Father.”

I do not convince him, the look on his face tells me that but at least he lets me go.

I retreat back to my room and lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling above me. There are a million thoughts spiralling inside my head. Is Elrohir right? Even if he is . . . How dare he?   
And most of all, what do I do?

The room is darkening when the knock comes on the door.

I do not answer it.

And it does me no good. Not even silence will keep my sister out of a room.

“What are you doing? It is dark in here.” She opens the door and sweeps in, all energy and motion. “I can hardly see!” With a whoosh the lamps flicker into life banishing the shadow to the corners and I blink.

“I said I had a headache.” I frown at her but she ignores me.

“Mother has sent me with food,” she says instead, despositing a tray by my bedside, “and you can drop the excuses, Eldarion. I know you have no headache.”

“Mother has sent you?” Despite myself I am hungry and I reach across to pick up one of the sweet cakes she has brought me, “or did you volunteer because you want to annoy me?”

“So,” she ignores my questions and curls herself up on the bed beside me, helping herself to one of my cakes. “What is bothering you? Is it so hard getting used to being a King no longer?”

“I am _pleased_ I am a King no longer.”

“I know that,” she says, “but I also know you are not used to being told what to do, or having to answer to Father once more. I do not blame you. It must be hard, but you are too defensive some times, Eldarion. Father was worried about you this evening. He was not trying to dictate to you.”

“I know that!” I do know it. I know his concern was genuine. “It is not _his_ dictating I am angry with.”

“So you are angry!” she exclaims almost with glee. “I knew it. Who has annoyed you? If it is not Father then who?”

“None of your business!”

“Eldarion,” she sighs, as if she needs great patience just to deal with me, “this is me. It is you and I against the world, remember. So many times I have sat in the evenings with you and listened to your problems. Why not tell me them now?”

She is right. For long years Tinu was all I had. The only other elven soul in our world, she alone understood my grief for my parents and she alone saw what leadership cost me. She used to come in, on evenings when I was overburdened with worries, and sit next to me, as she does now, to lessen my load with her blunt, frank, astute and yet humorous advice.

Why not tell her? Then she can tell me to stop being so foolish and I can sweep this whole incident away.

“It is Elrohir who angers me.”

“Elrohir?” I have surprised her. Despite myself I chuckle for I do not often achieve that.

“Elrohir. He tells me what to do. He tries to control my life, and I will not have it. Not this time.”

“What makes him be so foolish as to try and do that? What do you mean he controls your life? You are not even answerable to him.”

“Well he thinks I am,” I take a breath before I say the rest. “He stormed in here this evening, demanding I not love those he thinks unsuitable.”

“Demanding what?” It is not often I have my sister lost for words. “Why does he talk to you about love at all? Who does he think you love here? Who is unsuitable?”

“Does that even matter?”

“Yes it matters! You cannot tell me only half the story, Eldarion.” She looks at me oddly, “Who is it?”

“He imagines things that are not real. He saw Estel and I at the swimming hole, and he—”

She throws her hands up to her face with glee as she answers me.

“You are enamoured with the silvan! I knew it!”

“I am _not_ enamoured with him!”

“Well why not?” She tilts her head to look at me with a smile, “Why ever not, Eldarion. Estel-from-Valinor is quite appealing. I think he would suit you well.” She is teasing.

“If you think him so appealing _you_ go after him. Elrohir will probably find that quite acceptable.”

“Oh he is not right for me,” she laughs, “not at all. He is far too quiet and gentle for me.”

“He is not quiet and gentle at all!”

“And you would know that because?” She laughs so hard at my discomfort.

“Because he has been working with me, that is all.”

And suddenly she is serious, just when I begin to lose my temper.

“You protest too much, Eldarion. Why is that?”

“Because he is my friend. Do you know when it was I could last say that? And you, and Elrohir, and this nonsense . . . It will ruin that. I feel it slipping through my fingers.”

“Well, why does Elrohir think him unsuitable? . . . Just pretending between you and I, since as you say, it does not matter anyway. What are his objections?”

“Who knows,” I shrug, “because it will destroy my father, he said, and upset Legolas.” I pause then, to let the thought roll around inside my mind, “and probably because I am a Man.”

“ A Man. . . Or a man? Which do you mean?”

“Most likely both.”

It makes no sense given Elrohir is with Legolas himself but is that it? The idea has only just presented itself after my joke of Tinu pursuing Estel, for would not both Father _and_ Legolas be pleased with _that_ matching?

She is silent then for the longest time, gazing at her hands and when she looks up at me, finally, she is deadly serious. All hint of teasing is gone.

“I do not think any of those are good reasons not to pursue this, Eldarion, if your heart wants it. The fact you worry for your friendship is the only thing that has merit as an argument against it. Elrohir is wrong.”

“Elrohir is blind. He saw _nothing_ because we were doing nothing. His imagination runs away from him.

“And what does _he_ say?l

“Who, Elrohir?” Surely I have already told her enough about my uncle’s opinions?

“Estel. What does Estel say?”

“Estel knows nothing of this and you will not tell him!”

Again she gives me her coquettish smile.

“I can tell you one thing.. . He likes you.”

And briefly it is as if my heart leaps before my mind wrestles it into submission.

“How can you know that? Do not say rubbish.”

“I just know it.”

And suddenly I realise what she has done.

“Tinu! Tell me you have not been helping yourself to his thoughts!”

“The odd thought. Just the occasional one.”

My sister has inherited from my mother the ability to see beyond the surface into the thoughts that lie behind the faces people show the world. She is not as adept at it as Mother who can almost strip you bare if she so wishes. For Tinu it is just flashes of insight—but unlike my mother Tinu is not always so circumspect in her use of it.

“You know that is not alright, not without invitation.”

“If someone invites you in, Eldarion, they will show you nothing you do not already know and it is boring. Estel-from-Valinor was interesting. I wanted to see what Valinor itself was like. ”

I realise I do not want to know what she has seen in Estel’s mind. It is an intrusion and would be a betrayal.

“Tell me nothing more!” I say severely holding up a hand. “I do not want to know what you have seen in his head!” And she sighs, as if I have disappointed her.

“Sometimes, Eldarion, you are too honorable for your own good.”

She picks up my hand then, lacing her fingers through mine, before she speaks.

“I know you have been lonely,” she says quietly, and Tinu is seldom ever quiet. “I have been there, remember. I understand a friendship would be important to you. I also know sometimes you would rather let things wander on at the same pace, in the same way, than take a step that may be challenging. I think you should put aside all Elrohir has said. What right did he have to say it? Who cares what our father or Legolas think . . . It is not for them to say. I know you have kept hidden parts of you for far too long. You should step into the light. You should talk to Estel about whatever it is you might feel, and whatever it is you want.”

“And if I do not know what that is?”

“Then he may help you decide that.”

“It is not as easy as you make it sound, Tinu,” I say but I do not let go of her hand. For all her wildness, for all that we are so completely opposite and want for such different things Tinu has been my rock right through all the years of my Kingship when I was alone. Her advice is often wise. Her methods however can sometimes be eccentric.

“I know it is not easy for _you_ , Eldarion. You are too used to hiding, even from yourself. It is time you are honest. It is time you are _Eldarion_. Not the son of Aragorn, not the King of Gondor . . . Just Eldarion.”

“I do not even know who Eldarion is.”

But she shakes her her head determinedly.

“Yes you do,” she says. “Yes you _do_.”

 

 

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

  
**Eldarion**

Everyone is well asleep by the time I am brave enough to go in search of Estel. I have rehearsed what I will say backwards, played out every possibility and I cannot believe I have let my sister talk me into this.

It is insanity.

He opens the door to my knock and stares at me in confusion.

“I thought you were unwell,” he says and then, as if it is not obvious, “It is the middle of the night.”

“May I come in?”

“Of course,” he stands aside and lets me through, “though I am wondering why?”

The answer to that is not in my carefully rehearsed speech and so I ignore it and throw myself instead into a seat by the fire.

“Has your headache affected your ears?” Estel asks as he sits down next to me with a frown, “or addled your brains? For you are acting very strangely.”

“I just need a word.” I tell him.

“Did I do something wrong at dinner . . . Or before then? Is that what this is about?”

“You did nothing wrong,” I sigh heavily. I did not want the conversation to head down this track but how do I change it’s direction?

“The headache still plagues you then? Why did you not tell me of it before? We did not have to work so long.”

“I do not have a headache. I never had a headache.”

He leans back in his chair.

“Honestly, Eldarion, this is like pulling teeth. What is going on?”

I have decided I cannot just rush in and broach the subject of what Elrohir supposes or any of that. I am not Tinu. I must approach this in a more roundabout way. I have come with a story to tell him. One I have told no one else at all. I did not stop to think about just how strange launching in to my tale would seem, but it is too late now.

“I wanted to tell you about Ithilien—”

“Ithilien?” He leans forward with interest at that. “Father has told me much about it of course . . And my mother, but why now, late at night?”

“You would see if you would just let me finish!”

“Sorry!” He holds his hands up in supplication. “I will let you tell your tale of Ithilien no matter how odd the timing of the telling of it may be.

But I have lost my footing. I had it all planned out and he has put me off my stride.

“It does not matter.” I decide discretion is the better part of valour. I will retreat and put up with Tinu’s searing criticism in the morning.

I do not count on Estel when I decide that. He will not let me.

“It does matter. Tell me. I want to hear your story. Whatever it is. Anything you can tell me of Ithilien is welcome. It will help me understand my father better.”

I am not sure this story will.

“I was young,” I tell him then, “but not too young. Nearly a Man by my people’s reckoning but it was before they discovered my elven fea so I was not quite as much of a man as they thought I was . . . That is, I was younger than I appeared.” He watches me with serious green eyes, his gaze steady and unblinking.

“I had been fostered with Faramir for a year—it was part of my becoming a man, and I went to stay in Ithilien on my way home. I used to stay there often with Legolas, but this time was different. This time I fell in love.”

“In love?” His eyes widen in surprise. “In love with who? One of my fathers people? Perhaps I know her?”

“Perhaps you do but I am not going to tell you who it was. He was sent back to the Greenwood in disgrace when they discovered us.”

“He?” The word hangs in the air before he continues. “Why in disgrace?”

“Because your father deemed me too young, because he thought the elf took advantage of my youth and inexperience, he was centuries older than me after all. Because I was Crown Prince Of Gondor and so it was all wrong . . . Every bit of it was unacceptable no matter which way you looked at it . . . So that was that.”

“ _My_ father did that? But he . . . He has never interfered with any of _my_ dalliances.”

“You are not Crown Prince Of Gondor.”

“Why would Father care about that? It matters not.”

“But it _did_ matter, Estel. It did matter, and regardless of their friendship my father was his Leige lord.”

Too late I realise he is angry on my behalf and that I did not want. I do not wish to be responsible for more antagonism between he and Legolas.

“He was right, anyway.” I add firmly.

“He was not right! He had no right to interfere so drastically in your love life. Our people do not _do_ that!”

“He _was_ right, Estel, because all political issues aside I _was_ too young. That became all too apparent later when I handled myself so badly I left the way open for a challenge to my father’s throne, and animosity against the elves.”

He narrows his eyes.

“I am struggling to see how that can emerge from a badly judged love affair?”

I am not going to tell him _that_ story. I am not ready to expose that young Eldarion to his judgement.

“Can you not just accept my word that Legolas was right to step in? It is for me to say, surely. I am not telling you this so you can judge him. That is not what this is about at all!”

“So,” he says, leaning back, folding his arms, “What _is_ it about?”

“I just wanted you to know . . . Who I am.”

“You did not have to tell me this, Eldarion. I do not have to know all your secrets.”

He is missing the point and it is incredibly frustrating and so I tell him so.

“You do not understand!”

“I _do_ understand. You think I should care it was an elf you fell in love with not an elleth, but I do not. My people do not see love like that, Eldarion. We are more . . . Fluid. It is the fea we love, and when you have fallen for the brilliance and light of one it matters not what the body is. A loved fea makes it’s body beautiful to the eyes of those who love it, no matter what the form.

“Well that is how it is for me,” I say.

“Well good,” he smiles, “but you still do not need to tell me that. It is immaterial who you love as long as it is the one you choose. I do not care. Still, this must be the elven side of you? My father gave me a lecture before we came here. He told me Men were not like us and that they had Noldor-like ideas about restricting who you could love. I am under orders to keep my hands to myself and I have done . . . Have I not?”

He is so pleased with himself and this accomplishment I have to laugh.

“I can only vouch for me,” I smile. “I know nothing about what your hands have been doing with others.

“Well I believed you a Man, so I followed Father’s instructions to the letter.”

I can well believe Legolas gave his son a warning about Men and their ways of love. A free spirited silvan could find himself in serious trouble otherwise.

“I am not sure if it has anything to do with my elvishness,” I admit. “It is not as simple as Legolas has told you. There are men who feel as I do, but it is frowned upon and they keep it hidden. For the longest time—although Legolas certainly did not mean me too—I felt that Ithilien love had tarnished me in some way. I felt . . . Bad. I even believed at one point it was growing up watching Legolas and Elrohir that made me that way, that they had somehow corrupted me.”

The shock at that registers clear upon his face and rapidly I backpedal.

“I do not feel that now. I never really believed it but I could think of no other excuse. I was only young. I no longer feel it is something imposed upon me. I know it is me. I want to embrace it not run from it.”

And he stares, white faced and silent he stares at me. I have said too much. I have insulted his Father and Elrohir who he loves, who he likely loves exactly the same as, so I have insulted him.

I am such a fool.

His fists are clenched so tight the knuckles shine white.

“Why are you telling me this? Why are you telling me this, Eldarion?”

“I am sorry—” I want to repair the damage but he will not give me the opportunity.

“Tell me why we are having this discussion!” He cuts across my attempt at apology.

“I already have—”

“No you have not.” His voice softens, but those fists do not unclench. I know. I am watching them. “You have _not_ told me. Why do you want me to know this? Why are you here in the middle of the night telling me a story I do not need to know, you have long kept secret?”

But I cannot tell him. Not now I have made such a mess of it.

“I will go.” I say instead. “You are right. It is the middle of the night and I am foolish.” Foolish to listen to Tinu _ever_. I tell myself.

I take my eyes off him, just for a moment as I prepare to go, and quick as a flash his hand reaches out. With the gentlest of touches he strokes the top of my ear.

I cannot breathe.

“They fascinate me,” he murmurs. “Since I first met you I have wanted to touch them. So beautiful . . .so unusual.”

I have always hated my ears. Not round like Men or pointed like the elves they are nothing, half and half, stranded inbetween.

“I have kept my hands to myself,” He is saying, “like my father told me, because I believed it would be unwelcome. Was I wrong, Eldarion? Is that why we are here? Because I was wrong?”

I can barely hear his words over my heart pounding in my ears.

“You will have to tell me,” he continues when I do not answer. “I cannot presume. But know you are not tarnished . . . Not at all . . . Not ever . . . No matter what your answer. Not in my eyes. I see your fea and it makes _all_ beautiful.”

“You were wrong.”

He smiles and it is dazzling.

“Usually I hate being wrong but this time I am glad of it. See that was not so difficult to tell me in the end.”

“I am not used to talking about these things.”

“You are still not talking about these things, Eldarion. I am reading between your lines. But I understand why that is now.”

He brushes his fingers across my ear again. Not the brief soft glance of before but something more definite, and yet regretful, for just as I lean in to it he withdraws it.

“Our fathers may not like this.” He stares at his fingers as he speaks, the one that where just now upon my skin. “This will not be anything easy, if we chose it.”

“Elrohir already rages.”

I did not mean to tell him that.

“Does he?” Startled he lifts his eyes to meet me. “What do you mean by that?”

“He saw us at the swimming hole . . . He saw something . . . Something he did not like. He came to see me before dinner and he was furious. He warned me off. Told me it would destroy my father and upset yours. He told me I could not do this. It was so like Legolas in Ithilien, I lost my temper with him. I ordered him out, told him he did not get to control me.”

“He should not have done that.”

“I was angry. It felt too much like what went on before.”

He sighs then, and it is followed by silence, a long silence, interminable before he breaks it.

“I have to ask you something.”

“Of course.”

“Is that why you are here?”

I do not understand him.

“What do you mean?”

“Because Elrohir made you angry? Because he reminded you of that other love? Because you want to get back at him, or your father? Because you want to prove to him you will do what you want? Because you want to try this out to see if you can really achieve it?”

“No! No that is not why I am here!”

I grasp at the hand he still stares at.

“That is not it!”

He lets his hand rest in mine. He leaves it there for quite some time, as he looks at them, our hands joined together.

But then he pulls it away.

“I need to think on this. Elrohir is right. This will disrupt things with our fathers. I find that difficult. I do not know if I can do that. . . My father . . .I need to keep him safe.”

I want to tell him that is not his job. He should live his own life. He cannot always be thinking of Legolas. It is not fair on him. It is not fair on us. I do not know how much of this new reluctance really is that and how much is simply he does not trust my motives.

“What about _you_ though, Estel?”

All of a sudden he is on his feet, putting distance between us. This is slipping away. It was so close I could grasp it but now I have lost it.

“I need to think, that is all. I am sorry, Eldarion. Some time to work out what is best.”

“Of course . . .” I do not mean it. I do not mean a word of it, but what else can I say?

“Of course.”

 

It is a long walk back to my room. The place is in darkness. Everyone is in bed.

I am alone.

I am used to being alone but something about this time makes it even harder.

 

  
The very palest rays of early dawn are peaking through my window when I am woken by a knock upon the door. At first I am confused. It takes me time to stagger to my feet and answer it.

He stands there golden, beautiful, lithe, elegant, leaning against the doorway, arms loosely by his sides.

“So,” He says, as if I have not just had to spend half the night regretting my every word to him earlier,

“So, Eldarion . . .

 

Let us do this.”

 

 

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

  
**Estel**

It is strange how you can get up one day and suddenly the sun is brighter, the birds sing louder, the sky is bluer.

It is even stranger how it can be just one person who makes it so.

Since that moment I had my first glimpse of Eldarion’s fea I have been entranced. He drew me to him like a moth to a flame. He shines so brightly, so very Sindar but with this added something else, an extra radiance that is exciting to feel. I am beginning to understand what it is that has drawn my father to these mortal friends of his. Eldarion’s is so different from our slow burning fea.

So I could not stay away. I sought him out and found him—building a house, of all things—and somehow found myself creating that Mannish house alongside him.

I have been immaculately behaved.

My father told me in no uncertain terms Men were off limits. No matter how interested I might be, no matter what signals I imagined they sent me, I was to stay away. They did not love as we did and I could end up in deep trouble if I did not listen to him. Woman or man I must not go near them.

So while Eldarion’s light drew me in, while I saw him watching me when he thought I was not looking, I resisted.

I have argued with myself that as he is not really Mannish—not all of him anyway, he did not count in my father’s warning, but I knew deep down he did.

Then last night he arrived at my door out of nowhere in the middle of the night and stumbled his way through the worst proposition I have ever been a part of.

That is why the sun is so bright this morning, so warm upon my skin. That is why my steps are lighter. Because of Eldarion.

But despite that there is a whisper, the tiniest twist of anxiety at the back of my mind, asking me if I have done the right thing.

I am trying to ignore it.

Eldarion is not working today. He promised his father he would give his men a day of rest and take one himself due to that imaginary headache and so he has done that. _I_ told him he should have just admitted to his father he had not been ill at all. It is not as if he would have had to tell him about us, but he would not do so.

Instead we sit beneath the trees, _so Father can see I am doing nothing,_ he said, and he whittles at a piece of wood he has collected from the building site. He hums an endless happy tune as he does it. His delight in life embraces me. It wraps itself around me like a golden glow, and while it is uplifting, while I am joyful to know I am the cause, it takes that niggle of worry inside me and magnifies it.

He is too open. He does not guard himself well. Any elf in shouting distance will recognise this for what it is. They will not know it is you. I tell myself, thinking of my father and the Elrondionath. They will not suspect that connection. But it feels too dangerous. I am not going to be very good at this subterfuge which Eldarion has asked of me for the meantime.

 _Let us become confident in ourselves before we face their drama_ , he said. It made sense at the time . . . Now? Not so much.

I escaped up into the tree boughs when we first arrived here. Sitting above him . . .watching, just watching. I was hoping they would soothe me. Since we have arrived in this world of Men I have neglected my trees. I have not spent enough time with them and they are so joyous about my presence.

“Do you mind if I retreat to the treetops?”I asked Eldarion, for really, there was a possibility he may think it rude.

“Of course not!” He smile was wide. “You are a wood-elf. I love that about you.”

But I did not find the equilibrium I wished to there so I have descended and lie beside him letting the sun warm me, watching the clouds and drinking in his contentment.

“Do you want to see what I do?”

I am drifting and the sound of his voice startles me.

“Yes.”

“It is for you,” He says. “A gift.”

And he passes into my hand a carving. It is a figure, not yet complete, done so beautifully it is exquisite in its detail. This is elven work indeed and I wonder as I stare down at it, how it took them so long to identify what he was if they knew he was capable of work like this.

The figure is an elf and he is beautiful—shining, the wood has a radiance which I have no idea how he has captured. It glows as if this was one of the great ones; Finrod, Finarfin, and yet the features tell me it is unmistakably me.

“How I see you.” He tells me as I stare at it lying in my hand.

“But you have made me as magnificent as one who has seen the light of the trees!”

“Because you _are_.”

He has, of course, never seen one of those who have seen the light .. . Except perhaps Glorfindel . . . Did Eldarion ever meet him?   
It is, at the same time, both joyous and terrifying that he sees me thus.

I feel I need to give him something in return for this beautiful object but what? I have no creativity. My father can draw pictures so real they leap off the page, my grandfather works with wood as Eldarion does but me? Nothing.

Then I remember.

“I want to give you something!” I tell him as I leap to my feet. “Can you wait while I fetch it?”

“You do not need to do that. I need nothing. I do not expect anything in return. It is a gift!” He protests.

“Nonetheless I want to give it to you. I will be back!”

It takes me no time at all to find them. I know exactly where they are, carefully wrapped in the bottom of my pack. Foolish it may be but I take them with me always.   
Surely he will like this.

His smile is a brilliant thing when I return. It is uplifting to know someone is so pleased to see me.

“Have a look at these,” I tell him as I lay the parcel in his lap. “See what you think, as a worker of wood.”

Gently he unwraps it and the amazement in his face gives me joy.

“What are these?” he lifts one up to look at it more closely. “Gimli! He is captured perfectly here. This is just him!” He brushed a thumb almost reverently across Gimli’s carved features.

“My grandfather made them when I was a child. I brought them from Valinor.”

“Your Grandfather?” He looks across at me in surprise.

“Thranduil.”

“Thranduil!” Everyone is always surprised when they discover my grandfather’s artistic ability. No one ever sees him that way.

He lifts the second figure up to the light. Its edges are smoother, the details somewhat lost. It is my father and when I was younger, whenever I felt buffeted by the storms that could sweep through my family I would hold on to it, sleep with it, as if the very spirit of the light-filled, mercurial father I adored was contained in that small piece of wood.

“Legolas,” Eldarion says with a smile. “He is well loved.”

“I used to carry him everywhere with me.”

The last is the most pristine, virtually perfect. Every chisel mark is still intact. Of course Eldarion knows who it will be before he sees it.

“My father. Thranduil has captured him exactly. I love it.”

“I want you to have it.”

“What? No!” He tries to hand it back to me but I will not take it.

“I cannot accept this, Estel. You grandfather made it for you.”

How do I explain to him how conflicted I am about that carving of Aragorn-the-King without hurting his feelings? My grandfather carved it for me with love but all it did was remind me of the days Father could only see the loss of his friend and looked right through me. So I have carried it with me because Grandfather made it, but I always have it where I do not have to look at it.

“You will love it more than I do, Eldarion. Grandfather will be pleased to know you think it is such a good likeness. He would not mind.”

“You cannot separate the Three Hunters.”

“We are together so they will not be separated will they? Look after it for me. We shall say it is still mine but you have it with you for the meantime.”

He sighs, but he tucks the small figure away in his pocket.

“I shall treasure it, Estel. The long years I spent without my father were painful. It was a grief that cut deep.”

I remember then something else I must give him.

“I have your soldiers. Well not with me, but here . . . In our woods.”

“My soldiers?”

Surely he remembers them.

“Elrohir gave them to me. I used to play with them for hours. Rhawion does now, but never without me. I would not have him damage them. He is such a wild thing.” My thoughts flitting to Rhawion cause me a flash of pain. I miss him, ball of trouble that he is. I wish he was with us. I have been too long apart from him.

“Elrohir said he made them for your father.” I add when he looks at me blankly.

“My _wooden_ soldiers? You have them? You have them here?”

“Well not here. At home. I will give them back. They are yours after all.”

“Let your brother keep them,” he says, “if he gets joy from them, but I would like to see them. I cannot believe you have them.”

“You can see them, then, when you come to visit me in our wood.” When I suggested this last time he came up with excuse after excuse not to, surely now will be different.

You know that will not be until—” I am not going to let him give me another string of excuses.

“Until Father and Aragorn-the-King are back from their search for Gimli. I know, Eldarion. But it is my home and I would like to spend time with you there, as I am doing here. We are not that scary. What are you afraid of?”

“I am not afraid. Of course I will come.”

But I think he _is_ afraid. I think for all he says he wants to be elven he is afraid to actually do it.

But I do not know why. It cannot all be about his father as he intimates. The Aragorn I talked to that evening in the cave was not unreasonable.

It is an enigma.

He goes back to his whittling then, and his humming, and I return to my journey through the clouds, floating upon his happiness.

And through it all I wish this annoying feeling of anxiety would go away and let me enjoy the perfectness of this moment.

Instead it spoils it.

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Estel**

It is not as if I deliberately seek Elladan out. It is not as if I purposefully go and speak with him.   
  
In fact you could say he found _me_.

Eldarion must go to a meeting with his father about some important Mannish business. He does tell me what but I must admit I find it hard to concentrate on it. It would be most odd if I accompanied him and so I am left to my own devices wandering the town. I mean to search out my father but I cannot find him.

I find instead a tiny, wild, walled garden in the centre of the city. It is almost as if it was made by an elf, like a snapshot of my home. I love it instantly.

How am I to know Elladan would arrive there?

I am sitting in the tree when he arrives disturbing my peace. The breeze caresses my face, The leaves sing to me with joy. I do not notice Elladan until he sits beneath me. At first I think to go down to him, but then . . . I am too comfortable. The breeze catches my mind and takes it soaring.

The sound of his voice makes me jump.

“Eldarion! Come and join me.”

Now I look I see Eldarion hovering in the gateway, and he smiles at Elladan’s invitation, striding across towards us. His fea dances like a golden thing. It is mesmerising and I am stuck. If I go down now Elladan will see right through us. He is no fool and Eldarion shouts his joy to the treetops. My chance to disclose myself is lost.

They, neither of them, notice me here. Nor will they. There is not a Noldor or Sindar alive who can feel a Silvan in the trees when they do not wish to be felt. So I stay where I am.

“You look well today.” Elladan tilts his head to give Eldarion a curious look as he sits beside him.

“I _am_ well!” Eldarion’s smile is brilliant and I realise with a start how infrequently I have seen a genuine smile from him since we first met.

“Aragorn was right then.” Elladan laughs and Eldarion looks at him with the smallest of frowns.

“What do you mean?”

“A day off from work seems to have done you good.”

“Hmm,” he shrugs noncommittally. A worse attempt at avoiding the question I have never seen. “Perhaps. Have you seen Estel?” he adds quickly. Too quickly; too eager, Eldarion. Elladan is a healer who is used to looking below the surface of others. Considering Eldarion has once been a King I am surprised he does such a bad job of subterfuge. Perhaps it is because Men were easier to fool?

“He has not been here. Why do you ask?” I can hear the interest in Elladan’s voice but Eldarion does not it seems and so he plows on.

“I had to leave him for a meeting with Father and now he seems to have disappeared.”

“Likely with Legolas.” It is a perfectly reasonable explanation Elladan gives him, an easy way out of the conversation But Eldarion does not take it.

“I told him I would find him afterwards so I do not think so.”

“Estel is Silvan,” Elladan says gently. “They tend to be easily distracted. There is no offence meant by it. He may take meeting up with you to mean hours in the future. Their timekeeping is most erratic.”

I am not even slightly offended by that. He is absolutely, perfectly, right.

“You are getting along then?” He adds and to my ears it seems too casual . . . But perhaps I am simply oversensitive.

“We have discovered we have much in common.”

“Really?” Elladan exclaims in surprise, “I would have thought a Valinor born Silvan and a half elven King from the 4th Age had almost as little in common as is possible!”

“That is just it,” Eldarion replies. “To Estel I am not a King. I am not even a prince. I am just Eldarion. He does not know that other Eldarion at all. I can be rid of him.”

“You will never be rid of him, Eldarion. For he is _you_ , and he is a good man; one I love. He is worth knowing and I would like Estel to know him too.”

“Well he will, of course but that is what I mean.” Eldarion sighs then in frustration. “He sees beyond the trappings because they mean nothing to him. That is what I _mean_ Elladan. He does not expect anything of me because of who I am.”

“Everyone expects things of us, Eldarion. It just depends what.”

And Eldarion pulls himself up to his feet. He has had enough. He does not wish to hear what Elladan is telling him today.

“I had forgotten how tedious your elven conversations could be,” he says. “All the endless talking in circles and riddles. I do not have the patience for it today.”

But Elladan just laughs.

“Well you best get used to some flighty, distractable discussions if you wish to befriend a Silvan. They can never stay on topic!”

“I have not noticed that from Estel. Perhaps he is different!” Instantly he defends me. It is so strange to listen to someone so passionately on my side.

“You do not know him well yet then Eldarion, because I can tell you he is Silvan through and through.” Elladan still smiles. I can hear it in the lightness of his voice.

“I know him well enough,” Eldarion’s voice is soft and gentle as he answers. “I know him.”

He is right and he is wrong. After our early morning he knows the deep parts of my soul far better than Elladan ever will. And yet Elladan knows the whole. He knows it all. Elladan knows the boy Estel I still carry with me, and unlike Eldarion I do not want to ever be rid of that boy, no matter how unhappy he may sometimes have been.

I wait, after Eldarion has departed, for Elladan to go too but he does not. He leans back against the tree closes his eyes and tilts his face to the sun, and he sits.

Until I get throughly bored with waiting.

And when my boredom with his interminable sitting overcomes me and I drop from the tree, the height to which he jumps makes me laugh.

“What are you doing?” he cries. “Elbereth, Estel, I was miles away.”

“Where were you? With Laerion?” I grin at him and the disapproval on his face melts away with the mention of my uncle’s name. I remember the Elladan before Laerion. He was a much less happy Elladan than the one we have now.

“I might have been,” he laughs, and he pats the ground beside him, suggesting I sit down, which tells me I have been forgiven.

“I wish Laerion had come with us.” I tell him then. “I could have done with him here.” My uncle is good at listening. All the problems I have that I cannot tell my father I tell Laerion. He always understands.

“Well I wish that too, but I understand why he is not. It is best to keep he and Aragorn apart from each other until things settle, I think.” Elladan turns to me then with a stern frown, “But you distract me. Do not think I do not notice. What were you doing eavesdropping in trees? You are far too much like your father than is good for you, Estel. I was not impressed when he sat in the treetops listening to my conversation all those years ago in Imladris, and I am not impressed with _you_.”

He has me there. I could try more distraction. I would like to hear what it was Father was listening to in Imladris, but I do not think Elladan will fall for me asking that. There is nothing for it but to confess.

“I was sitting in the tree floating upon the breeze and you come and sat there. It is not my fault. I was here first!”

“And yet you did not think to make your presence known?”

“Eldarion arrived. I could not. It would look odd.” It is a weak excuse and he knows it.

“Eldarion was looking for _you_. Why did you not tell him you were above us? Were you hiding from him, Estel?” The stare he gives me is most uncomfortable.

“I was not hiding from him!” As if I would. But I was hiding _him_ from Elladan, the secret of he and I, Elladan would have seen straight away if both of us had stood in front of him.

He sighs and rests his head back against the tree, removing that searching gaze from me. The respite is short-lived.

“So, what goes on with Eldarion.”

He goes straight for the kill.

“What do you mean?”

“He is a different man from yesterday.”

“He was unwell last night.” I say, “You heard him. I do not know how illness works in these mortals but he is obviously improved now. As you said. . .the day his father made him take off work has restored him.”

“He was not unwell yesterday, Estel. I am an elven healer—one of the best. I know a sick man when I see him . . . and when I do not.”

I shrug my shoulders. What can I say to that.

“Well I am not a healer so he looked sick to me.”

“Estel, do not lie to me.”

Instantly I am offended. What makes him think so easily that I lie. I forget, in all my indignation, that I actually do.

“Why do you say that? How do you expect me to know if Eldarion is really sick or not? I have never met a Man before these ones!”

“I expect you to know,” he says, “because I have no doubt he has told you. Because he walked in here with his fea singing more joyfully than I have ever before heard it, looking for _you_. Because he jumped down my throat the instant I teased about your silvan heritage, leaping to your defence. Because our entire conversation was about you and that was not by my instigation.”

What can I say? Eldarion has given us away, as I knew he would. I take a deep breath.

“Eldarion and I . . . We have embarked upon something.”

“ _Embarked_ upon something? What does that mean, Estel?”

“Begun something. He and I. Together.”

“Elbereth help me,” is all he says to that and he looks to the sky.

“Did Legolas not warn you off getting involved with Men?” he continues in the end.

“Did anyone tell you Eldarion is _not_ a Man?” I should keep my sarcasm to myself but I cannot help it. “Anyway what business is it of yours, or my father’s or Aragorn-the-King what we do. We are not children!”

When he looks back at me his face is very serious.

“It is none of our business but I fear it will become so. Have you thought seriously about this, Estel? Eldarion is not someone you should play Silvan games with.”

That is not fair.

“I do not play games! _He_ came to _me_. And I sent him away, Elladan, because he told me Elrohir was already raging about us and some attraction he had spotted, because I feared he only came to me to score a point, to prove he could have a elven connection, with someone . . . anyone, because I worried it would upset my father and I do not want that, and because Father _did_ warn me away from Men. I said no, Elladan.”

“So why are we here then? With a lovestruck Eldarion and you hiding in trees?”

“Because . . . Because . . ” I struggle to put into words what went through my mind last night during those hours I battled with myself over what to do. “Because it hurt when he left. It panicked me. Because it felt as if something precious was slipping through my hands. It felt wrong. Because as much as I love my father, as much as I want to keep him well and safe . . . What about _me_? Because I had this overwhelming feeling it was a mistake to turn him away. So I changed my mind.”

And Elladan surprises me. He reaches across and takes my hand.

“I understand,” he says. “Sometimes the most sensible course of action is not the right one. Sometimes we must risk ourselves and others for the sake of our hearts.”

“But now I feel I have got it wrong.” The touch of his hand upon mine opens the floodgates to that curl of anxiety with me and lets it all out. “I am afraid I have made a mess of things. Elrohir told Eldarion it would destroy his father . . And therefore mine also. What if he is right. I cannot be the cause of that. I have made a mistake, Elladan.”

“Tell me,” Elladan asks softly and he does not let his hand fall from mine, “if Legolas and Aragorn did not exist, if none of the rest of us were here, if it was just you and Eldarion on your own in the world, no one else to think of, would it still feel wrong?”

I do not even have to think.

“No. Between he and I it feels right. More than right.”

“Elrohir was wrong to say anything,” he mutters. “He should have kept out of it and I will tell him as much, and as for Aragorn . . . He does not get to play that card. It would be beyond hypocritical of him after Arwen.”

“But my father—”

“Is well and healed and more than able to cope with this if it is expected of him and Maewen _will_ expect it, Estel. You do not have to live your entire life protecting Legolas.”

“But in daylight it seems too much, Elladan. Too much chaos to be right.”

He surprises me then with a strangled laugh.

“You will not know this, you were too young, but when I first began things with Laerion . . . Well I knew Elrohir would not be best pleased . . . I worried about his reaction so badly, yet I also knew I should not let Laerion go. I ended up one night hiding naked in his wardrobe when Elrohir interrupted us, looking for me in a fit of unwarranted panic. Can you imagine it, Estel? I was stuck in the dark. Legolas knew I was there, he stood in front of the doors in case Elrohir chanced to decide to open them, although why he would, goodness knows. The whole thing was ridiculous .

“Yet Elrohir discovered us in the end, not then, but later, and he was unhappy, and he still has not really accepted it, yet he tries. We got through the drama. It was worth it. And there will be drama when you and Eldarion are discovered but you will survive it too.”

The thought of him hiding in my uncle’s closet cuts through my anxiety like a knife. It makes me laugh out loud.

It makes me feel almost as if I can do this.

But that is not all.

“I do not know what to make of Eldarion.” I tell him. “He frightens me. I am not inexperienced at this, far from it, but he . . . ” I struggle to find the words to explain and in the end I reach in to my pocket for the unfinished carving of myself Eldarion had me hold on to during his meeting.

“Here,” I say, “He made this for me this morning.”

He turns it over in his hands slowly and carefully before he looks up at me with the softest of smiles.

“He has made you as glorious as Finrod, Estel. How lucky are you?”

“I know. But this is not me. I am not this. I am just a small silvan! I can not live up to this. I can never live up to this. What do I do?”

“You do not have to do anything, Estel. Just be yourself. Eldarion sees you as this when you _are_ that small silvan. To have someone look at your fea and see a reflection this full of wonder . . . It is a precious thing, Estel.”

“So Laerion sees you as this then? Like a Noldor King of old?”

If Elladan can live with that then I suppose I can.

“Ah,” he sighs softly, “I do not know how it is Laerion sees me.” He pauses briefly before he goes on. “No, that is not fair. I know he loves me well, but like this? Perhaps not.”

He places the carving back in my hand, curling my fingers over it.

“Guard it well, Estel, Eldarion’s heart. That is what you must worry about. Can you do that? He is not a free and easy Silvan. The two of you must speak on this. You need to lay it out there . . . What he needs, what you can give. If they do not match you must walk away now.”

“Walk away?” That seems inordinately hard.

“And I suggest you speak to your fathers, both of you.” He adds as I stand up to go. “The sooner the better. Do not wait for Elrohir to let it all out there. Try and manage the damage, Estel.”

“Eldarion wanted us to keep it secret.”

“Eldarion is shouting it from the rooftops even though he does not know it. Point that out to him.”

I have nearly reached the gateway when he calls across the glade to me.

“I owe you an apology, Estel.”

“An apology?” For what? Perhaps he regrets calling me a liar?

“For allowing your ignorance of Legolas’ injury in Minas Tirith. You were right. I told you I had your back. I told you I understood what it was to have a father bent with grief. I let you down in that. Sorry, Estel”

“It does not matter.”

It did matter, but now as I look back at him, the words he has just spoken, of not knowing the true depth of my uncle’s love for him ringing in my ears, all I feel is sorrow.

“I know Laerion loves you.” I say. “We can all see it, more than anything.”

And Elladan smiles.

“I know that.”

It is only after I am standing back out in the street I hear his whisper, not meant for my ears,

“ _More than Iruion?”_

And I cannot answer him that.

 

 

 

 


	25. Chapter 25

 

**Estel**

 

Eldarion is not difficult to find when I leave the garden. I go straight to his room and sure enough, he is there, 

 

“Where have you been?” His smile is wide as he opens the door. 

 

“With Elladan.” 

 

The wide smile falters in confusion. 

 

“I have just come from Elladan.” 

 

“I know. He told me.” I am not about to tell him I heard every word but I will pass on Elladan’s advice. “He pinned me down with one of those stares of his you can not look away from, and asked me what went on with you, Eldarion.” 

 

“What for? Why? Nothing is going on with me. I hope you told him that.” 

 

“At first I did but there was no point. He called me a liar. He had seen right through you.” 

 

And Eldarion grows pale. 

 

“I told him nothing. I told him nothing about us!” 

 

“You did not have to.” 

 

“Elrohir has spoken to him!” Immediately he jumps to the wrong conclusion. “That was what that tortuous elven conversation was all about. He was warning me off. How dare he!” 

 

“He was not warning you off. Far from it. He said he would give Elrohir a piece of his mind, and he told me to tell our fathers before Elrohir does it for us. He said you were shouting it from the rooftops. Those were his very words. You forget you are amongst elves, Eldarion, who can sense your fea. You do not guard yourself well.” 

 

“I do-”

 

“You do not! Elladan is on our side,” I tell him. “Listen to him. Did no-one ever teach you how to shield your feelings from others?” 

 

“No-one ever taught me _anything_ ,” he says bitterly but then he corrects himself. “That is not fair. Once they discovered me Elladan taught me much, but who was there for me to learn to shield myself from? My mother? Tinu? Both of them would help themselves to whatever they wished in any case. I have to rely on their self restraint to protect me from that. Beside them then who? No one could feel my fea, Estel, no one.” 

 

“Well then I shall have to teach you!” I smile at him then. “At the moment you are an open book. That will not do . . . It will not do at all. We will be able to keep nothing secret.” It was foolish of me not to realise this is a skill he simply would not have needed. 

 

“And speaking of secrets,” l say quickly before I lose my nerve, “I want to tell my father. It makes sense what you say, that there will likely be drama and tension over this and if we have given each other no time to explore it before that . . . We do ourselves no favours. I understand that. But I am not used to keeping secrets from my father. Not secrets this big. It taints things for me. All day I have felt twisted in knots by it. It is spoiling ‘us’. And I do not want Elrohir to be the one to tell him.”. 

 

“It is spoiling us?” I can feel the anxiety he does not know how to hide from me radiating from his fea in waves. 

 

“I said that wrongly,” I say hastily. “I mean spoiling what should be good between us, getting to know each other, because it is at the back of my mind worrying me. It is important to me Father hears this from me.” 

 

“I understand.”

 

 He says he understands but I am not sure he really does.

 

“Do you?” 

 

“I do. I respect the fact this is important to you. We shall tell them if you need it. After dinner?”

 

It is huge relief and I nod. I did not expect it to be this easy. 

 

“Separately though Eldarion. I need to do this on my own. I owe Father that. He is not always the calmest when something upsets him. I would rather, if he is upset, that does not happen in front of Aragorn-the-King.”

 

That would be terrible. 

 

“I know all about Legolas and his problems with control. Father does also.” he tells me. 

 

“You used to know. He has changed since then.” 

 

“Or has he? I saw him when we thought you may be lost.”

 

I do not even want to think of how it was for my father then. He has told me it was not so bad, that he knew I was alive, but I wonder . . . Did he really? Here is the opportunity to ask Eldarion and find out. But I realise I cannot being myself to. 

 

“Come on,” he throws an arm around me and pulls me close as I hesitate and it feels so good. “You do not want to dwell on that of course. We will go and eat, and then you can speak to him, and I can speak with my father. Perhaps I will make sure my mother is there as well. It may go better that way.”  

 

He does not seem perturbed about it at all. 

 

I feel as if there are wings beneath my feet as we walk down the corridor. We will get through this as Elladan said we would. A rough few days perhaps but then we can move forward into whatever it is we may find between us. 

 

If only it was easy as I thought it would be in that moment. 

 

It goes without saying Dinner does not go well. 

 

I do not sit next to Eldarion. I sit with my father but Elrohir watches us intently from where he sits beside Elladan across the table. His eyes flick constantly between Eldarion and myself. It makes me tense, nervous, agitated, and a couple of seats away from me Eldarion becomes irritated. I can feel it. I am completely distracted by his annoyance to the point Father has to repeat himself when he asks about my day and a frown flits across his face. 

 

“Am I that boring?” he asks me lightly, as if my inattention amuses him. 

 

“Sorry Father, I was miles away.”

 

“Miles away where?” Elrohir cuts across our conversation, and the tension in his voice does not help. I am just about to give some explanation of homesickness or the like, which would be not that far from the truth if I am honest, when Eldarion, of all people, speaks for me. 

 

“What is it of your business where Estel’s attention may wander, Elrohir?” 

 

Why does he draw Elrohir’s attention to us more than it already is? Why does he think I need his help dealing with this man who is, to all intents and purposes, another father to me? 

 

“Do you really wish me to answer that, Eldarion?” Elrohir snaps back. “Do you want me to go there?” 

 

“None of us want you to go there, Brother.” Elladan is cool and sounds completely unimpressed when he corrects his twin. “And so you will not.” 

 

But it is too late. Aragorn-the-King pounces upon Elrohir’s words like a cat after a mouse, and I do feel _I_  am the mouse in this. 

 

“What do you have to say, Elrohir, that Eldarion would not wish to hear?” He looks at his son as he says it. “What has been going on?” He asks. “I thought you and Estel had found some common ground? Has there been a disagreement?” 

 

He assumes I am distant because we have been fighting. I suppose it is not too strange to presume Elrohir would be unhappy with that. 

 

But he is wrong. It is not that at all, and if I could find a way out of this room without making it so much worse, I would. 

 

“Have you been arguing with Eldarion?” Father sighs quietly beside me. “Has something upset you?” 

 

“Has something upset him, Eldarion?” Elrohir repeats my Father’s question but loudly so that everyone can hear. He earns a disapproving hiss from Elladan beside him as he says it. 

 

I wish they would just be quiet. I wish they would all be quiet. Every single one of them, and I am so busy wishing it I almost do not feel the gentlest, softest of brushes against my fea. It makes me toss my head to be rid of it and yet it is so imperceptible I almost think I imagine it. 

 

“Estel,” The Queens voice when she speaks my name out of the blue makes me jump until I realise it is not me she talks to at all, but instead her husband. “Do you fancy a walk under the stars, you and I?” She places a hand upon his as she speaks and he looks at her startled. 

 

“Now?” 

 

“Why not?” She tilts her head to one side and her eyes dance as she looks at him. She is so terribly beautiful you can almost not take your eyes off her. It is true what they say about her beauty. 

 

“Because we are in the middle of a conversation.” 

 

“Then Eldarion can join us and explain it himself.” The look she sends her son is a piercing one. If I were him I would cringe but he does not. Instead he raises an eyebrow almost as a challenge, “and my brothers,” she continues, “who seem to be in the mood for a squabble, can argue between themselves out of our earshot.” 

 

But Aragorn will not be swayed, even by her. 

 

“Is everything alright, Estel?” He asks me softly. “Is there a problem I should know about?” 

 

“No.” 

 

It feels as if a carefully constructed tower teeters on the edge of destruction, as if my life, which had been going so well, slips between my fingers to shatter upon the ground and there is nothing I can do to stop it. 

 

For across the table from me Elrohir snorts in disbelief.

 

“Stop it, Elrohir!” 

 

Elladan’s swift reproach is disapproving.

 

And worst of all Eldarion is on his feet. 

 

It is then my life disintegrates before my eyes into tiny pieces. 

 

“Will you stop with your hints, and threats, and unspoken warnings, Elrohir.” Eldarion is shouting and I am sliding, down in my seat where nobody can see me. 

 

Yet they all see me. 

 

“Just stop it! Spit it out if you must for I am sick of this. Who are you to judge us!” 

 

I realise too late, with horror, Eldarion is going to tell them all. 

 

“Judge you for what, Eldarion?”Despite the yelling, the King is remarkably calm . . . For now. “What do you mean?” 

 

“Judge us for being who we are!” Eldarion cries. “Judge us for living our lives. Judge us for being something other than just the sons of Aragorn and Legolas. Judge us for being us!” 

 

“What have you _done_?” my Father whispers beside me. “What have you done, Estel?” 

 

He knows. He knows, he knows exactly what this is about. He is quick-witted, observant and he knows me. I wanted to tell him myself. Eldarion said he understood. He promised me I could. Why does he do this?

 

But while Father has worked out in a second what it is Eldarion speaks of the King has not.  

 

“Nobody is judging you.” He says. “Sit down and talk calmly. Explain yourself for you are making no sense at the moment.” 

 

Then it all happens at once. When I think back on it I cannot work out what came first. It is a jumble of disaster. 

 

“Estel,” The queen moves her hand to grip the arm of Aragorn-the-King so he must turn to look at her, “I think you, I and Eldarion should speak of this elsewhere.” 

 

“Elrohir judges us, Father,” Eldarion speaks over her so the King is caught between the two of them. “And do not for a moment pretend you will not also. I am doing this no longer. I will not sit here and be something I am not. I will live my life the way _I_ want. I will love who _I_ want. I will be with Estel if _I_ wish it. You will not stop us Elrohir.” 

 

“What?” The Kings eyes are wide, his face has no colour left in it at all. “ _What_?” 

 

“You heard me.” 

 

Father pushes back his chair then,

 

“Estel, I think we should go—”

 

But he gets no further than that. 

 

“I told you!” Elrohir is on his feet and he is furious. “I told you to leave him alone!” 

 

“And I told you I am done with people telling me who I can love! No one will do that to me again!” The both of them rage at each other and I am invisible. Only Elladan sees me from across the table and he is wretched. 

 

“Stop it, Elrohir,” he snaps again and this time he yanks Elrohir’s arm hard enough that Elrohir turns to glare at him. For a moment I wonder if this will come to blows. “You go too far. You open a can of worms you will not be able to close again.” 

 

“When has someone ever told you who you can love?” 

 

It is the King that speaks. Cold, calm, steady, his voice sends chills down my spine, but it is not me he looks at. “When, Eldarion, has someone ever said that to you? This is madness.” 

 

“It is not madness, Father. This is who I am. Estel is who I wish to love.” His eyes flash. He sticks out his chin, he is defiant. 

 

We have not even spoken of love, I have not even thought of it. He tears the heart out of me for he promised he would not do this. It is a betrayal. 

 

The King’s knuckles where he grips the table are white and the Queen’s fingers grip into his arm as if she is all that holds him steady. 

 

Eladrion’s challenge is greeted with the longest, heaviest of silences. We are all of us frozen. None of us can move. 

 

“This is a shock.” Aragorn’s voice is as ice when finally he speaks. Cold, cutting, solid, ice. “It is something unexpected. It is something I had no idea of, perhaps that is my fault, but I tell you again, Eldarion. I have never, your mother has _never_ , placed requirements upon who you can love.”

 

“No only _Legolas_ does that!” 

 

He speaks of my father in Ithilien. 

 

“Eldarion, no.” The words as my father speaks them are regretful, broken, carrying a world full of sorrow.

 

And Eldarion hears none of it. Instead he shouts all of his anger, all of the hurt from that long over love affair into his father’s face. 

 

He throws _my_ father to the wolves. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	26. Chapter 26

**Estel**

 

“No, only  _Legolas_ does that!” 

 

Eldarion’s accusation hangs in the air. 

 

“Aragorn—” Father attempts to speak but the King is having none of it. He is not listening. 

 

“What do you mean?” He says to Eldarion before turning his attention on my father. “What does he mean? When have you said anything about who he can love? You have this wrong,” He turns back to Eldarion again. “It was Legolas who argued for you to be allowed to court Rhíwiel.” 

 

“I am not talking about Rhíwiel,” Eldarion cries, and I wonder who on earth that is. “I talking of Ithilien, Father, when I stayed there on my way back from my fostering with Faramir. Did you not ever wonder why I came back earlier than anticipated? I fell in love there, with an elf, with a man. But Legolas would not let me love him, oh no. That was not for me. It was wrong. I was the Prince of Gondor. He sent me back to Faramir. He sent my love to the Greenwood. Where is he even?” Eldarion turns to ask my father, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Where is Meluion? Is he here?” 

 

He gets no answer. 

 

The King is irate and he gives Father no chance to utter so much as a word. 

 

“You _knew_ this?” 

 

He turns all of that fury upon my father. 

 

“You did this? You stopped it? You told him it was wrong? And you did not tell me? All these years you have known this?” 

 

“I did not tell him it was wrong. I never did that. Why would I Aragorn? Me of all people! But he was too young. He was in over his head. It was not right . . . Not the right time.” 

 

“You did not _tell_ me!” The Kings fists are clenched and he slams one of them into the table with a force so hard the noise makes me jump. It must hurt but he does not so much as flinch. 

 

“Eldarion begged me not to. I had to honour that. He had the right to decide that, he was old enough—” 

 

“You have just finished telling me he was too young. Which is it, Legolas? We all know the answer to that though do we not? He was a boy. Just a boy. Slow to grow, slow to mature, an elven boy. And I should have _known_!” 

 

“I did not know that at the time. Looking back though . . .” My father trails off, his voice miserable. I can feel him shaking. 

 

“You had plenty of opportunity since. All that time, all the time Aderthron made our lives a misery, twisted the mind of my son. All those hours I spoke with you, agonised over the things he was saying? Wondered where I had gone wrong, why my son was open to such hatred? How could he think the way he was thinking? How could he say the things he was saying when I had never . . You _knew_.” 

 

“I could not tell you. He asked me specifically.” 

 

“You could not tell me? Even when his freedom was at stake you could not tell me? Even then? Even when he faced the council and we had no explanations?” 

 

“I did not have the words then, Aragorn.” 

 

I am surprised at Father’s calmness under fire. I am amazed he is still here, still talking. And it is nonsense they speak. I have so many questions. Who is Aderthron? What hatred was Eldarion speaking? I can not imagine him being hateful at all. Why did he face the council? Why did they risk his freedom? What does any of it mean? 

 

“When Elrohir attacked him? You did not think to enlighten me?”

 

_Elrohir attacked him?_

 

“I was not well. I know this looks bad, Aragorn.” 

 

“Oh it _is_ bad. You were not unwell the entire time between then and my death, Legolas.” 

 

“Estel,” Finally someone else enters their conversation. The queen curls a hand over those clenched fists. “Estel,” she says gently, “Let us not do this here. Let us sit down together, you and I and Eldarion and talk about this.” 

 

 But he will not be placated. 

 

“Did you know this?” He asks her. “Tell me you did not know this. Tell me this is not another secret about my son you have not trusted me with. Tell me I am not the last to know _again_.” 

 

“I did not know this, Estel.” She says, “I promise you.” 

 

Between the two of them, my father and the King, Eldarion stands, and when I look at him I do not know what I feel. He is pale, still, staring, and in his eyes I see a horror. I think, too late, he realises exactly what it is he has done. He is at the centre of a storm. But it was him who told them of us when I asked him not to, when he promised he would not. 

 

“I asked Legolas to tell no-one.” He says. “It is not his fault.” 

 

“It _is_ his fault!” The King bites back. “It is his fault. Because you were little more than a child and he was supposed to be my friend.” 

 

“I _am_ your friend.” Father says quietly. “I have always been that. I am sorry, Aragorn.” 

 

“Are you though?” The kings voice is a sharp and as cutting as a knife. “Are you?” 

 

I do not know if it is Father’s friendship or his sorrow that he questions. 

 

Elladan moves then and I am glad. I cannot stand this assault on my father. I cannot bear his sadness. Elrohir, so vocal and antagonistic just moments before is strangely silent. I believe he did not know this about Eldarion either. 

 

“Aragorn,” Elladan comes round the table. He places himself between Father and the King. “This is shocking and upsetting, I know. You have a right to be angry but let us all just breathe. Let Eldarion explain things more calmly. Let Legolas—” 

 

“I do not wish to hear any more from Legolas!” 

 

“We will go.” Suddenly Father is galvanised into action. He grabs at my hand. dragging me towards the doorway. “We will go and let you talk.” I think he is as desperate as I am for an escape. 

 

At the slamming of the door behind us I realise I have been holding my breath and can suddenly breathe again. But it is not shut long. We have barely taken half a dozen steps down the corridor before I hear the creak of it opening. 

 

“Legolas,” Elrohir it is who stands there, awkwardly looking after us. 

 

“Not now!” Father shouts back at him. The first time he has raised his voice throughout all of this. “Give me some time with my son, for Elbereth sake!” 

 

He turns his back on Elrohir and we walk away. 

 

He says nothing to me, not a word, as we stride down the corridor, nothing as we reach his room, nothing as we enter it. Instead he walks across the room, flings himself into a chair by the fire, sits there silently, head in his hands. I am stranded. I do not know what I should do. 

 

“I am sorry, Father.” 

 

My voice echoes in the silence. It sounds hollow as my words are hollow. 

 

But Father lifts his head. He waves me to a chair in front of him. 

 

“Sit,” He says. 

 

And so I do. 

 

“I am sorry.” I say it again for what else is there? “I did not mean for that to happen.” 

 

“I am sure I remember telling you before we came here not to entangle yourself with Men.” Father says. “Was I not clear enough?” 

 

He was clear enough. He was crystal clear. But still I give him the exact same answer I gave Elladan. 

 

“Eldarion is not a Man.” 

 

“Ah that may be but he has been raised as a Man, he thinks as a Man. That is all he knows how to be, Estel.” 

 

 I hang my head, and Father sighs. 

 

“So which one is it? Was I not clear or did you ignore me?” 

 

“You were very clear.” 

 

“So you ignored me.” 

 

“I did not!” That is unfair and it stings. “I did not ignore you Father. I thought on your words. I held myself apart, and I sent him away. He came to me and I sent him away!” 

 

“Then what was all of that I just sat through, Estel?” 

 

It is all so difficult to explain. I look at him there, so subdued and unhappy, all due to my selfishness and I cannot face myself. 

 

“I changed my mind. I knew you had warned me. He asked, I said no. But when he left . . . It felt so wrong Father. It felt as if something precious slipped between my fingers. It tore at my heart and I changed my mind. I am sorry, I am so sorry. I wanted to tell you myself and I told him that. He promised me. I do not know why he did that. He was not supposed to do that!” 

 

“He did that because he is a Man. He is quick burning, impatient, he burns with mortal fire. A _Man_ , Estel and you best learn how to deal with that. He spoke of love. Is that true?” 

 

“I have not said that. We have not said that to each other. We have only just begun. I do not know where that came from.” 

 

“And that is a Man as well. All or nothing, burning brightly.” He sighs and runs a hand distractedly through his hair. “You have a lot to learn if you want this to work.” 

 

Do I want it to work? His words of love frighten me. His ignorance of my wishes hurts me. The damage he has done to my father angers me. 

 

“I did not know he would mention what happened in Ithilien.” It seems important that my father knows that. I did not know Eldarion would release that sword upon his head. 

 

“Did you know about that at all?” he frowns. 

 

“Eldarion told me. When he first came to me, to explain how he felt. I did not know you had not told Aragorn the King. He did not tell me that. I would have stopped him. I do not know why Elrohir did not, or Elladan.” 

 

“Because they did not know,” Father says sadly. “No one knew apart from your mother. I promised Eldarion I would tell no-one and I was true to my word. I do not want you blaming yourself for that, Estel. It is on me. It has been a long time coming. I have known Aragorn should know but felt unable to tell him. It has finally caught up with me and it is not your fault.”

 

But it is, it is, it _is_. 

 

The knock on the door gives me a fright and makes Father sign heavily, looking upwards to the sky. 

 

“Elrohir,” he mutters. “Can he give me no time at all?” Still he stands, and he opens the door, and it _is_ Elrohir. 

 

He steps in and I do not think he even sees me over by the fire. 

 

“Will you forgive me?” He asks before he is properly in the room. “I did not know. I had no idea it would go so badly.” But while Father has been calm and quiet with me he is anything but with Elrohir. 

 

“What were you doing?” he cries. “What _was_ that? What was the point of it. Did you see what you did to my boy?” 

 

“I saw something,” Elrohir tries hurriedly to explain in the face of Father’s anger. “I saw something between them. I _told_ Eldarion to stay away. Estel is so much younger.” 

 

“Why did you not come to me? Why did you not tell _me_ if you thought there was a problem? 

 

“Because I thought it would upset you.”

 

“Oh and this has not?”

 

 Father’s sarcasm makes me flinch. It is not the first time I have heard them argue. They do it often, sometimes it even seems they think it fun. But when it is like this . . Bitter and cutting, I hate it. It reminds me too much of those days when I was very young when my mother and father fought like this, raining words full of hurt upon each other, and I was caught in the midst of it trying to keep my small sister safe. 

 

“Stop it!” I shout it as I wanted to shout it all those years ago but was never brave enough.  “Stop it, stop it, stop it!” 

 

And to my surprise they do. 

 

“Stop fighting when it is about me!” I say when they turn and stare. “Or at least wait until I cannot hear you. I did not need you to protect me, Elrohir. I did not _need_ it.” 

 

“Do you want me to go?” Elrohir asks but it is Father he asks and not me. I am so angry with him. He was the one who made Eldarion say what he did. Does he think me still a child? 

 

“Do not leave on my account.” I am on my feet and I push past him but Father grabs my arm. 

 

“Are you alright, Estel?” He asks. “Do not go unless you are.” 

 

“I am alright. I will be fine Father. I will go to my room. I will be fine.” Repeating it does not make it true and I am not sure he believes me but he lets me go. 

 

 I am nearly to my room before I cry. It is so humiliating but it all defeats me. My fathers pain. He has waited so long to be reunited with his mortal friend, he has pinned so many hopes upon it and I have ruined it all. Now Aragorn cuts him to shreds. 

 

I have even managed to come between he and Elrohir. Perhaps I am just the infant Elrohir thinks I am?  

 

I shut the door behind me in a rush. I lean back against that door, 

 

And I weep. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	27. Chapter 27

**Eldarion**

 

I am quiet and measured and careful. That is what they always tell me anyway. My mother says I was not always that. She describes me as talkative and curious, full of questions, getting into mischief. 

 

“It was always worst when you were with Legolas,” she says. “He led you astray terribly and had a penchant for returning you covered in mud.” 

 

I have lost that joyful, inquisitive Eldarion. I do not recognise him. I do not know when it was he disappeared. 

 

But Estel found him for me. 

 

It is hard to explain how I feel with him. He makes me smile, not because he is funny, though he can be, but because I am happy. All of a sudden I feel light, as if nothing weighs me down. All the burdens I have carried forward from my old life vanish in a puff of smoke as if they never existed at all. He will throw me a glance, a glimpse of a grin over his shoulder and I cannot breathe at the sight of it. 

 

I have never felt like this. 

 

So when Elrohir starts his disapproving watching of us at dinner, when he leaps in to question Estel’s inattention, when he suggests he will tell the others something he does not even know, I do not remember my promise to Estel to let him tell his father on his own. I meant it when I said it, I did. But Elrohir’s words, his antagonism, felt like the beginnings of a cage. That cage I lived my entire life in, being something I was not, began closing around me yet again and I resisted. I pushed back. I will not live that way again. I will not. 

 

But now, after I have kicked, screamed and thrust that cage away from me I am left with nothing. I am left wondering what I was thinking? What came over me? My father is hurting. Legolas is pale and still, and Estel looks at me with accusations of betrayal in his eyes. I can hear his voice as he stares. How could you? he asks. You promised.  And he turns his back and leaves me standing there alone as he disappears through the door. 

 

Elladan stands beside me. His eyes follow mine as I watch Estel walk out that door. 

 

“Not your finest hour, Eldarion.” He says quietly. 

 

“I know that.” 

 

I do not need him to tell me. 

 

Now I have to clean up the mess. 

 

“Could you give us a minute,” my father says, his voice tight and low. “Elladan, Elrohir, more than a minute actually.” 

 

Elrohir stands by the door. He followed Legolas out but was back within seconds. 

 

“Aragorn,” He says, “I did not mean for this to happen.”

 

“But now it has,” Father replies, “and we are left trying to repair the damage. Give us the space to do that.” He is angry, quite possibly as angry as I am with Elrohir. 

 

“Are you sure?” Elladan asks softly, “perhaps someone neutral would be helpful. I could stay.” 

 

Father does not answer him. Instead he asks another question. 

 

“Did you know?” 

 

“I knew of Eldarion and Estel only, the rest . . . No.” 

 

“And you did not think to mention it? Even obliquely to mitigate the damage?” 

 

“They are both adults, Estel.” Elladan says quietly. “It was not my place. I did council them to tell you.” 

 

“It is possible, Elladan to be _too_ neutral.” My father’s voice is controlled but his words are cutting. “Perhaps curtailing the uncontrollableness that is your brother would have been helpful. We do not need you to stay.” 

 

“I am not my brother’s keeper.” Elladan says sadly. “I have told you that before, Estel.” 

 

“I am well aware we have been here before!” Finally Father’s control begins to crack and he raises his voice. “And once again I find my son at the centre of it. It is obvious, however many years you have spent in Valinor, the two of you have done nothing to mend your own problems. I do not think we now need you to try to fix ours!”

 

“Go, Elladan,” my mother says firmly behind him. When she decides to give orders no-one, not even my father, disobeys her. “We know where to find you if we need to.” 

 

And then we are alone. The shutting of the door behind my uncles echoes through the room. It feels like a rebuke. I do not believe Elladan goes willingly.

 

My father, once they are gone, sinks down to the table as if his legs no longer hold him up, dropping his head into his arms. He is the picture of dejection and I do not know what to do. I should do something. I unleashed this upon him. But mother steps behind him as always, her hand running through his hair. I do not know what she will be doing to his fea, but I know it will be something. Does she soothe it? Is she calming those jagged edges? He will not be able to feel her of course . . . Or can he? Does their love transcend what is normal for elves and men? 

 

Sometimes—often if I am honest—I feel an outsider when with my parents for they can be so focused upon each other, so in love, you can feel superfluous. I know they do not mean it to be that way but still . . . That is exactly how I feel now. I have never experienced that feeling of being so consumed by someone. I wonder if I ever will? 

 

“Sit.” When Father lifts his head and speaks to me I jump. He takes me by surprise as I stand awkwardly wondering where to put myself. “Sit Eldarion and we will talk properly.”

 

He sounds tired. 

 

So I do as I am told.

 

“What could I have done,” he says in the end, not looking at me or catching my eye but instead staring at his fingers as they tap upon the table, “what could I have done differently that would have allowed you to come to me with this before? Why are we only discovering this now?”

 

“I do not know.” 

 

I truly do not. When I think back it is hard to grasp at what drove my decision making so long ago, and then once the decision was made it seemed easiest to stick with it. 

 

“Why did you ask Legolas to keep this secret? Why did you not come to me, or you mother, and tell us then?” 

 

“I—”It is so difficult to put into words. 

 

“Did I ever give you the idea I would judge you?” Father asks.

 

“No, but the world did, Father and I did not feel good about myself as it was. It was just another thing.” 

 

He frowns at me then. 

 

“Is it true Legolas told you it was wrong? I cannot understand that. Why would he do that when the life he lives says otherwise?” 

 

I do not want to make him more angry with Legolas than he already is, but at the same time I do not want to lie. 

 

“I do not think he told me so in those words and I know he did not mean to, but that is how I ended up feeling. That there was something wrong with me. We spoke about it later, after Aderthron, and once I was properly grown I understood why he made that decision. It was the right decision Father. I was too young. But I misunderstood at the time what he was telling me and why he ended things so abruptly. It did feel like a punishment.”

 

“The right decision handled the _wrong_ way.” 

 

“Remember Estel,” My mother says softly, “Legolas was not a parent, he was still young himself as my people go. He was not whole. He carried his injuries then. Likely he had no idea how to handle Eldarion himself. It was a mannish issue not an elven one. Do not judge him too harshly.”  

 

“I do not judge him for his handling of it. I judge him for his silence.” 

 

“I made him promise Father!” If I can try to convince him to forgive Legolas I will. “He was reluctant. Likely he did not wish to make that promise at all but I was angry and I was hateful. I did not leave him many options. When he arrived at Minas Tirith to find me entangled with Aderthron he insisted he would tell you then.” 

 

“And yet he did not. You have lived a lifetime and still I did not know.” 

 

“You know why that was. It all went wrong. He could not even say a sentence when they had finished with him. How could he tell anything as complex as this?” 

 

It is a part of my life I am wholly ashamed of. The worst of times. I try not to think on it, apart from those times I really must, to avoid repeating my mistakes. There was no way Legolas could have told my father anything after Aderthron’s men had done their worst and Father knows that. 

 

I know he knows it when he does not reply but instead stares at his hands in silence. 

 

When at last he speaks I do not like what he has to say. 

 

“I have concerns about Estel”

 

I feel that cage begin to creep closer. 

 

“I do not care.” 

 

“You would do well to care, Eldarion. I am trying to help you.”

 

“You are _not_ helping me. Taking Estel away from me is not helping me.” 

 

I will not listen to this. I will leave if I have to. 

 

“What is it about him that attracts you? Is this simply an attempt to recapture that long lost love? Is he just a convenient elf who happens to be here?”

 

“How dare you say that!” I am filled with indignation. 

 

“I have to ask it Eldarion, given the story you have just told us. Estel is very young—” 

 

“He is not that young. He is grown and adult. He knows what it is he does. We both know.” 

 

“It seems a repeat of before.” He says sternly. 

 

“It is not a repeat. It is nothing like that. It is because he is Legolas’ son you object.”

 

“It is not that. Listen to advice, Eldarion.” 

 

“Listen to _me_ , Father!” 

 

“Enough.” My mother inserts herself between us before the tension gets any higher. “Neither of you are listening. It is somewhat overwhelming, what you have told us, Eldarion. I think some time to consider it properly is what is needed, so _none_ of us repeat mistakes from long ago. Snapping at each other achieves nothing.” 

 

“I will not change my mind about Estel, Mother. That is not up for debate.””

 

“Estel himself may have something to say about that.” She says pointedly. “For I think this evening was not something he wished for.” 

 

I had forgotten that look on his face when he left. It is like a punch to the guts. My parents are not my only problem here and they are not the only ones I have harmed. 

 

“You are right. I promised him I would let him speak to Legolas himself about this. It was important to him. But Elrohir . . . I lost my temper. I can not do it again, Mother—live an entire life as someone other than the real Eldarion. It felt like a trap.” 

 

“I do not think you know who the real Eldarion is.” Father says. 

 

“Then I at least want a chance to find out! I know who he is not. He is not a King, he is not a Man, he is not someone unable to love.” 

 

“You _are_ a Man, Eldarion. Denying that leads only to trouble. You are man and elf both. Cutting either side off will only harm you, and it is strange you say you are not a King ,” his face softens at the last, “For I have heard otherwise.” 

 

“I am not a King as you were Father. I am someone who had to be one and struggled. I am someone who made it through by the skin of his teeth. Elboron would have been a better King than I.” 

 

“You were a King for a different time,” he says. “You cannot compare your Kingship to mine. Tinu tells me of a wise and thoughtful leader. Someone who walked the tightrope of discontented Lords perhaps better than I. Someone who left Gondor stronger than he found it. Someone compassionate who ensured none of his people was left behind and righted many wrongs. That is the king Tinu describes you as, Eldarion. Do you recognise him?” 

 

“You spoke to Tinu about me?” I had no idea. She did not mention a thing but then she always dances to her own tune. I am glad she chose tonight to run wild rather than sit through a tedious dinner with us all. I hate to think how she would have contributed to this disaster. 

 

“She talked to me, at length!” He smiles. I know he has a soft spot a mile wide for my little sister. 

 

“Well I do not recognise the leader she described. The reality was more chaotic. The reality was someone besieged with doubts, someone who never knew the right decision to make, who felt overwhelmed by the problems of the people he had to lead. _That w_ as the king I was. Perhaps she did not see it.” 

 

“Perhaps she did see it, for nothing ever escapes that girl, and she saw also the man who triumphed over those doubts and made good choices? It may surprise you, Eldarion, to know I too was crippled by my doubts, I too was sometimes overwhelmed by the magnitude of my tasks. I too often did not know what was best to do. You are describing a good leader. I understand it was not something you burned to do but do not minimise your achievements. I understand it is not something you choose to do again and can respect that. But do not deny that whole part of you.” 

 

I find it hard to imagine him struggling with doubts. He always seemed so confident and decisive to me. 

 

“Go and find your Estel,” Mother says then. “It seems you have apologies to make and possibly a hard road to travel there. Before you declare war with your father over him perhaps see if you have anything left to fight for? You need to consider there is more than just you in this, Eldarion.” 

 

They are stinging words although she delivers them softly, not in anger. 

 

“We promise we will think hard upon all you say,” she continues. “Will you promise to give thought to how your sister described you? Will you acknowledge some of that?” 

 

“I will try.” 

 

Tinu’s description is so far from my reality that I struggle to see it as anything but her usual bolstering of my flagging spirits, though she said it to my father, what was the point of that? 

 

I do not go straight to Estel when I leave them. He will be with Legolas at any rate. Instead I walk under the newly emerging stars and try to breathe. I try to still my rapidly beating heart for I am nervous at the thought of seeing him and I do not know what to say. When I finally arrive at his room I am surprised to see the door is open. It is unlike him. He is nervous amongst our Men and guards his privacy determinedly. 

 

I am even more surprised when I go in. 

 

The general chaos in his room is neat and tidy. He lives in the midst of a Silvan haphazardness but it is absent. Everything is absent. His room is tidy because it is empty. There is nothing left, it is devoid of his presence and his belongings. The only thing there is the half finished carving of him I had him keep for me. It lies alone in the middle of the bed, cast aside.

 

He is gone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	28. Chapter 28

**Eldarion**

 

I go straight to Legolas.

 

A part of me expects him to be gone also and that concerns me, for if he is it will be so much harder for he and my father to mend things. 

 

But no, I can hear the raised voices of he and Elrohir before I even arrive at his door and Elrohir it is who opens it after my urgent knock. 

 

He is not pleased to see me. 

 

“Not now, Eldarion.” 

 

He moves to shut the door in my face but I am quicker than I look and he only manages to jam my foot. That hurts more than a little.

 

“Estel is gone.” I tell him through gritted teeth. 

 

“What?” I hear Legolas behind him but I cannot see him through the tiny crack I have to look through. “Who is that? Let him in.” 

 

“”It is Eldarion.” Elrohir swings the door wide to reveal me, “and he says Estel is gone.” 

 

“He will be in the trees trying to clear his head.” Legolas says. “I would leave him alone to do that, Eldarion.”

 

“No I mean he is gone. Gone from here. There is nothing in his room. All his belongings are gone.” 

 

Suddenly Legolas pays attention. He pushes past me, striding down the hall to Estel’s room. Elrohir and I are left struggling to keep up. He searches the empty room, frowning with concern. The wardrobe, when he opens it, is empty, as are all the drawers. 

 

“You see,” I say somewhat unnecessarily, “there is no trace of him.” 

 

There is a sheet of paper on the desk in the corner—how I did not see it earlier I do not know—but Legolas snatches it up with urgency, poring over the words while Elrohir and I stand there in a heavy, anxious silence. 

 

“He has gone home,” he says flatly in the end, folding it up to put in his pocket. “He believes he has destroyed my friendship with Aragorn, and come between Elrohir and I. He goes home because we are better off without him here.”

 

 I am left feeling terribly, sickeningly guilty. 

 

“This is for you,” Legolas adds, picking up the carving from the bed and handing it to me and I see surprise flit briefly across his face as he looks down at it, before numbly I put my hand out and take it. And Legolas turns away from us with a heavy, tired sigh. He heads straight out of the room, back to his own.

 

“What will we do?” Elrohir asks his departing back. 

 

Though he pauses, he does not turn around when he replies. 

 

“I have no idea what you will do. I go after him, obviously.” 

 

And he walks away. 

 

“Wait!” I chase him down, grasping on to his sleeve to force him to halt and look at me. “Wait Legolas, let me go. Give me a chance to mend this.” 

 

“You?” He raises his eyebrows as if I have just made the most ridiculous statement ever. “I doubt Estel wishes you to follow him.” 

 

“But what if he does and I do not go? What then? I need to do this, Legolas. I know have hurt him. This is, all of it, my fault. I need to make it right and I will never be able to do that when he is all the way home.” 

 

And Legolas hesitates. I see it. Just smallest, briefest of hesitations. His glance travels down to the carving I hold in my hand of his son and when he looks up to meet my eyes again something has changed. 

 

He takes a deep breath and I hold mine. I _know_ , I know it in my heart, if I do not follow Estel now we will no chance at all. 

 

“You have tonight,” he says in the end. “Tonight, Eldarion. We will follow sometime tomorrow morning.” 

 

“This is foolishness, Legolas!” Elrohir protests behind me. “Estel is silvan. Eldarion will never find him in the dark. It needs an elf to find him.” 

 

“It needs a silvan to find him.” Legolas corrects him abruptly, “unless he wishes to be found. If he wants to see Eldarion, Eldarion will find him.” 

 

“And if Eldarion does not find him? It is a risk you are taking.”

 

“This is Arda Remade, Elrohir. Not the Arda we knew. There are no orcs or wargs roaming in the night. The worst he may find is a wild boar. He is grown. He is competent. He is well trained. If Eldarion does not find him then he will end up at home.  Remember how many people had doubts and gave us chances when we found each other.” 

 

And he spins on his heels and walks away. 

 

“We need to tell Aragorn,” Elrohir calls after him. 

 

“If you think I am speaking to Aragorn again tonight you can think again.” Legolas shouts back. 

 

“I will tell him then.” Elrohir mutters behind me, and then after some thought . . . “I will get Elladan to tell him.” 

 

I know one thing. It will not be me going to tell my father. Legolas has given me the smallest of windows and I am not going to waste a minute of it. My only hope is to be hot on Estel’s heels and surely he has not been gone long.

 

It is only after I am out on the road in the dark I realise I should not have been so hasty. I should have gone to Legolas to ask advice. I begin to realise I do not know Estel at all.

 

The stablemen tell me he has not taken a horse and so I do not either. Likely as a woodelf he will go places a horse cannot get me. But dark falls and as I pause to plan my direction I come to understand I do not know enough of him to determine his course. Where would he go? How would he travel? I have my general, long ago knowledge of Legolas’ silvans to guide me but nothing specific to Estel.

 

I simply do not know him.

 

In the end I imagine it is Legolas I track. I do know _him_ , or I used to. Surely Estel will have been trained to think along the same lines as his father? I wonder if it is enough though? I know they are different.

 

Light fades and I walk in starlight. Not a problem for Estel with his elven sight, but for me it is terrible. Elrohir is right. I will see no elven tracks in this darkness. In the end I rely on guesswork and head for the tress. When I reach the first decent patch of dense woods the path winds through I leave it to walk under the canopy.

 

It only increases the darkness.

 

I have a torch but it does not help me, not to locate a flighty silvan at any rate. It means I manage not to break my leg  stumbling over a tree root but not much else. I cannot even tell if I am going in circles or managing to maintain a straight line.

 

I have to stop. I am making things worse. And if I stop I will lose him . . . But if I carry on I may be taking myself even further away. I have no choice but to sit and wait until first light. Meanwhile Estel, who is not impeded by the dark can carry on his way regardless.

 

As I decide upon a glade to settle in and clumsily try and build up a fire my heart aches. Perhaps the fact I am a Man and handicapped by that means I have just lost him?

 

Leaning back against a tree, feeling the beginning of heat from my fire, I turn my eyes to the sky. It is the Stars I look for but of course I cannot see them. The trees obliterate my view. They look wrong at any rate. The brightest is missing. Earendil, my great grandfather, has gone. It was always strange thinking a star in the sky could possibly be my mothers grandfather but I searched for him as I grew in any case. I imagined I might one day meet him, ask him questions, and now he is gone. It was one of the first things my mother said when we arrived here.

 

“ _Earendil is gone_!”

 

It caused her pain, though she has never met him either. He watched over all of us. It made me feel safe.

 

I am mourning the loss of Earendil when I see him.

 

Or rather, I see his glow.

 

Across the glade, way up in the canopy is the soft light of a wood-elf. It must be Estel.

 

“Estel!”

 

He does not answer. The woods are silent. It is almost as if I imagine that figure in the trees.

 

“Estel, is that you?” I call. It echoes around the glade, and then finally, out of the trees comes his voice,  

 

“I am angry with you.”

 

“I know. Will you come down and talk?”

 

But he does not move.

 

It is very difficult holding a conversation with the faintest of lights high above me.

 

“It is not easy for me trying to talk to you like this.”

 

“Then you will just have to try harder.”

 

He gives me no quarter at all.

 

“I am sorry,” I say, because there is nothing else too say. “I am sorry I messed it all up.”

 

“You promised me.”

 

“I know I did.”

 

He does not answer that. Instead he sits, and I sit, in silence until I cannot bear it.

 

“Thank you for finding me.” I call in the end because it is obvious he did that. I did not stumble across the one glade he sat in by chance. He must have come to me.

 

“You were making as much noise as a dwarf, stumbling about in the trees. I had to come and see if it was a threat.”

 

“How do you know what noise a dwarf makes?” I do not mean to question him. It just slips out.

 

“They all say it. Even my father.” He says. “I imagined a dwarf would sound as noisy as you.”

 

He is probably right.

 

“Why did you come after me?” he asks then, “and not him? Not my father? Does he know I am gone?”

 

“I wanted to . . . I wanted to try and make things right. Legolas knows you are gone. He was going to follow. I pleaded with him to let me go instead.” 

 

“And he let you?” He sounds surprised at that. He has moved forward on the branch upon which he sits. I can see him now—all of him—more than just his glow. 

 

“He told Elrohir he should remember those who had doubts about _them_.” 

 

“Ah, Elrohir did not approve then.” It is a quick reply. 

 

“Elrohir thought I would never find you in the dark.” I say, “and he was right.” 

 

He chuckles to himself softly, a sweet lilting laugh, the loveliest thing I have heard all day. 

 

“Do not feel too bad,” he says and I can hear the smile in his words, “Elrohir would not find me either.” He is pleased with that idea. 

 

There is a pause, long, and eventually heavy as I wait for more words from him, and try to think of some to say myself. It is awkward and I hate it. 

 

I have just given up, both in me knowing the right thing to say and in him saying anything at all, when he drops silently, smoothly, startlingly suddenly from the treetops to stand in front of me, a light in the darkness. 

 

“I am still angry.” He says, “I am still angry with you. This does not mean anything.” 

 

“I am pleased to see you in any case.” 

 

“I have not forgiven you.” 

 

“I do not expect you to.”  

 

“I need to go back. I need to go back to my Father. This is not about you. I have made things worse by leaving as I make things worse by staying. He will be upset.” 

 

“He is unhappy that you are unhappy,” I say carefully. “But he is alright. Elrohir is more worried than Legolas. Your father said you were grown, competent, and well trained and would find your way home. He gave me a window to catch up with you and he follows tomorrow. Do not worry for him, Estel.” He spends too much of his energy and focus worrying about Legolas and that worries _me_. 

 

“He _said_ that?” 

 

“He said that.” 

 

“He is not upset?” Estel jiggles from foot to foot as he asks it, “promise me he is not.” 

 

“I promise.” 

 

“Of course I can no longer trust your promises.” 

 

That hurts. 

 

But really do I have a leg to stand on if I argue against it? 

 

It seems, despite the fact he cannot trust me, he does at least believe me for he sits himself down—across the fire from me—not close and yet still closer than before. 

 

“I will stay anyway.” he says. “If Father wished you to catch me then I should see what for.” 

 

He looks across at me expectantly, head tilted to the side, as if he awaits an announcement or some inspiring demonstration. 

 

The problem is . . . 

 

I have no idea what to do next. 

None at all.

 

 

 

 

 


	29. Chapter 29

**Elrohir**

 

I have now been a part of Legolas’ life for more of it than I have not. 

 

I have weathered the storms, I have rejoiced in our highs, I have relaxed in the quiet times and been buffeted by the turbulent ones. 

 

And we have much turbulence about us now. 

 

Sometimes—for the first time—I wonder if we will ever emerge from it. 

 

I have lost the ability to talk to him. I cannot understand him. I do not know what it is he wishes me to do. It used to be I could know his thoughts before he had them. 

 

Not any more. A conversation with Legolas now is a minefield where I stumble far more than I survive and it breaks my heart. 

 

So on my return from Elladan—who has rolled his eyes and sighed and let me know clearly his dissatisfaction at being asked to relay bad news to our brother—I hesitate outside Legolas’ door. Do I really want to go in there? 

 

I feel bad enough and likely he will make me feel worse, is it worth it? 

 

Of course the answer is he is always worth it. 

 

He does not answer the door to my knock and so I open it slowly. I could have taken that silence as a warning and left—perhaps I should have and that is my mistake—but Estel has run off and it is more than partly our doing. I am not about to leave Legolas to sit and wallow and avoid my part in it. 

 

He sits by the fire, hands clasped around his knees pulling them tight to his chest, his chin rests upon them as he gazes in to the flames. The soft firelight upon his face makes him seem so young, as he once was but no longer is. 

 

“Do you want me to stay, or go?” I ask him softly. 

 

“Stay.” He does not hesitate. It is a quick response, and yet he does not turn towards me either, there is no welcome in those words and this is what confuses me, he says he wishes me to stay but does he really? 

 

I can only take him at his word and sit down opposite. What else can I do? 

 

The silence between us hurts me. It presses down upon me until I feel forced to speak. That usually results in words I should not have said. 

 

“Elladan will go to see Aragorn.” I tell him, “though he is unhappy with both of us.” 

 

“Well I am unhappy with him too so that makes two of us.” 

 

That surprises me. Elladan was not a part of this evenings drama. 

 

“Unhappy with him why?” 

 

“For the same reason I am unhappy with _you_. Because he knew of Estel and Eldarion and did not tell me.” 

 

“It was only this afternoon Estel spoke to him.” Always, for as long as I can remember, my first instinct is to defend my brother. It is my job.

Legolas is having none of it. 

 

“Do not defend him Elrohir.” He says flatly. “If you see a problem with my son you come to _me_. It is the exact thing Aragorn accuses me of and he is right. Had you or Elladan come to me with your concerns I could have spoken to Estel and this whole nightmare could have been avoided.” 

 

“And you would have told him what?” I am genuinely interested to know how Legolas believes he would have handled this wayward son of his. “You do not see any issues with he and Eldarion? Is that what you are saying?”

 

“That is not what I am saying but I want the chance to address those issues myself!” 

 

“The way you did tonight?” He has been behaving so strangely this evening. I cannot make sense of it. “By letting Eldarion run after Estel on his own when he has no hope of finding him anyway? That way?” 

 

“Because I saw the love, Elrohir.” 

 

“What love?” I scoff. “I saw a man bitter about the life he used to lead chasing after a boy simply to prove something.” 

 

“Then you did not look very hard.” 

 

“I looked hard enough, Legolas. I was the one to see the attraction in the first place.” 

 

“Did you see that carving, Elrohir?” he asks me. “The one of Estel he had done. Did you see how exquisite it was?”

 

“Hardly a surprise,” I say, although I have to admit I wasn’t even aware the carving was of Estel. “Eldarion is gifted with his hands.” 

 

But Legolas only shakes his head in frustration. He is so often frustrated with me. 

 

“He had captured the essence of my son. It shone with love. It was Estel as he is truly meant to be. It was all I want for him. That he may find someone who sees him like that, as you see _me_ and I see you. I saw that carving and the love that shone out of it and I knew I had to give them a chance. As so many others gave us a chance all those years ago.” 

 

He said that to me before, that I should think of the doubts others had overlooked to our benefit. It is true that none of them believed Legolas and I were a sensible, or even a safe, partnership in the beginning. I did not even believe it myself at first. The dwarf riled against me, Aragorn was furious, They all of them put those doubts to one side to allow us to prove ourselves. 

 

Is this the same? I am not sure. 

 

I just wanted to keep him safe. He accuses me of abandonment. He says he has nightmares, night after night, of me leaving him in the Dagor Dagorath. It is not true. I did not leave. He needed help, and I was the one to get it. But try as I might I cannot make him see the reality. So I decided if I could not manage to achieve that I would instead prove my steadfastness to him now. I will prove I will not desert him, that I only wish to protect him always. 

 

 It is not going well so far. 

 

He rages against me and accuses me of harming him, not helping him. He criticises me, as he does right now, for my actions . I confronted Eldarion to keep them apart, he and Estel, just so Legolas would not have to do this. I am left confused as to what he wants, protection or independence? He asked me for protection . . . He sat here in tears and he screamed at me that I had left him. 

 

But when I give it to him he does not want it. 

 

Or is it just whatever I choose to do will be wrong?  

 

I cannot go back in time and change my decisions on the battlefield and if I could, if I stayed with Legolas as he wishes I had, as Elladan told me too, Legolas would be dead. Now it seems I cannot eradicate the hurt that stems from those decisions either.

 

While I am glad he finally chose to tell me of his nightmares it seems futile if I cannot fix them. And the subject bought images to my own mind that sear through my heart, memories I do not want to re-see and do not wish to re-live. 

 

We are at an impasse and I do not know what to do. 

 

“Do you not see why we should give Estel and Eldarion the opportunities we were given?” 

 

Legolas’ voice makes me jump. I was miles away covered in his warrior blood. 

 

“Were you even listening, Elrohir?” He snaps. 

 

What can I say? Do I tell him what I think of? Hardly. He has enough troubles with nightmares without me adding to it.  

 

 I am trapped in a corner with no way to go. 

 

“I am sorry,” I tell him. It is all I seem to do lately, apologise, sometimes I do not even know why. “I am sorry I do not know the right thing to do. I am sorry I have upset Estel for I love him, I could not love him more if he was my own, and I would never mean to hurt him. I am sorry for a world of things regarding Eldarion. That I neglected him when he was young, that I never noticed his fea when I should have, everything that happened with Lord Aderthron. I am sorry I have turned my longed for reunion with my foster brother and my sister into a disaster for all of us. Most of all I am sorry I no longer know how to make things right for you. I will go for Maewen if you wish. She will likely find the right path easier than I.” 

 

I cannot bring myself to look at him when I finish so I stare at my hands instead. I am afraid of what I will see in his eyes. 

 

“You do make things right for me.” His voice when he answers is soft and a hand reaches out to hold mine. Finer, more elegant, his slender fingers wrap around mine. “I do not want you to fetch Maewen.”

 

“I have no idea what to do next, Legolas”

 

“Be with me. Be your breathtaking, intoxicating, self, Elrohir. Do not try too hard when the solution is just to be who you always are. Estel is lucky to have you. So is Eldarion, but we need to let them be.” 

 

“And if it is wrong? Estel is young and naive. He does not know anything of the world. Eldarion may look young now but he is not. They do not match.” 

 

He laughs. 

 

“You have not spent enough time in our woods. In this I think Estel is far more experienced than Eldarion ever has been. He is a Silvan, Elrohir, and has been grown for awhile. He is no staid and careful Noldor. He knows all about love. I worry only only that Eldarion is more mannish at heart than Estel is expecting and Men are something he does not know how to handle.”

 

“And so when it all falls apart and he is hurt? What then? There will be ripples out towards you and Aragorn too if that happens.” 

 

“Then Aragorn and I will just have to deal with that. And you can help me deal with it if it ever happens.”

 

Those fingers lace between mine as if we are inseparable. 

 

“We have survived longer than any of them gave us credit for at the beginning, and it has been good, Elrohir, has it not? We are never going to be smooth and sweet as Aragorn and Arwen, or subtle and mellow as Elladan and Laerion. We are always fire and sparks and energy. That is why we are so good together. We have conquered so much. We can beat this as well. We can find the right path together. Do not give up on me, Elrohir.”

 

“I will never give up on you!” 

 

He lifts me up. He reaches in to my soul and allows me to shake off the misery that has dogged me.  I cannot imagine a life without his light.  

 

“It has been a wearying day and I am tired,” he smiles while not looking remotely tired at all, although he did earlier. “I need that calm you bring me to soothe my raw edges so I do not make things any worse than they already are with Aragorn tomorrow. You know how we can be.” 

 

I do indeed know how they can be. Misunderstandings are their speciality and we do not have the dwarf with us yet to tell them both they are being ridiculous. 

 

“You need to get that dwarf.” I say it out loud as well as think it. “The sooner the better.” 

 

His laugh is a burst of bright sunshine. It is beautiful in its melody. I love it when he laughs. I love it when I manage to _make_ him laugh. 

 

“You are so right! I will take myself off to find him on my own if I have to. But for tomorrow I have you, Elrohir. And you are all I need.” 

 

 

And that is all I need to hear. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	30. Chapter 30

**Elrohir**

 

I do not sleep. 

Legolas does, but I lie awake, thinking. 

 

Thinking about us, about what he has to say on Eldarion and Estel, on why—when I was sure their connection would cause him upset and distress, and the argument with Aragorn I foresaw even more so —he has been so calm, muted, thoughtful? 

 

The last time Estel took tail and ran and we spent a night waiting to go after him I was black and blue from enduring a pummelling, of both words and fists, when Legolas lost all control and I had to use force to prevent him bolting after his son on his own in the dark. 

 

This evening he has been melancholy and yet considered. He sleeps, I lie awake. It is disconcerting. I do not understand Finrod’s healing. I have kept my distance from him because we have not seen eye to eye and he is a sore spot between Legolas and I even now. But perhaps I need to seek him out and speak with him? Perhaps he holds the key to me understanding this? I am not good at backing down though. I am not good at burying the hatchet and admitting wrong. And Finrod is so incredibly infuriating. He baits me and he enjoys it. 

 

But for Legolas’ sake should I swallow that down and admit after all this time, he so obviously understands my love better than I do? 

That will be a hard thing to do. 

 

I am in the midst of this tangle when Legolas wakes.

 

He sits bolt upright, eyes wide, and he looks right through me. I am not sure what he sees but it is not me. 

 

He still walks upon the paths of dreams and I remember that heart-rending description he gave me of dreaming his death as I turned away and left him. Is he there now? 

 

“Legolas.” I am tentative at first, but I will not sit here and do nothing as he believes himself abandoned. “I am here,” I tell him softly, “you are not alone, I have not left you.” Wrapping my arms around him I drench him in my light. I will have him feel me in the midst of that terror. I will chase the nightmares from his door as I promised him I would. 

 

And then suddenly I am on the floor. 

 

He does not lean into my arms when I hold him. He does not melt into my strength as he awakens. I am not sure he awakens at all.   Instead he screams at me. 

 

“Get off me! Let me go. You will not hold me!” 

 

I am unprepared as he twists out of my embrace. It is not at all what I expected. The fist that connects with my face comes out of nowhere. I do not anticipate it as I never in a million years excepted it. I am completely defenceless. I do not even duck. 

 

And he hits _hard_. He holds nothing back. It sends me flying onto the floor. As I land my head jerks backwards into the wall I slide against with a crack. 

 

Stars spin about me and I sit, numb and confused. What just happened? How did I get here? 

 

All I can hear is the ragged breathing of Legolas above me. What did I do to deserve that? 

 

“Elrohir?” He sounds confused when he finally calls my name. As if he is not sure why I am not beside him. 

 

“Down here.” My voice sounds thick to my ears and when I lift a hand tentatively to my lip which stings like a demon it comes away bloodied. So much blood. 

 

Legolas fumbles with something beside him and suddenly the lamp flares into life bathing the room in its soft light. I can see his face then, peering down at me, his eyes widening in horror as he sees me. Do I look that bad? 

 

“What happened?” 

 

What does he mean _what happened_?

 

“You tell me.” I say. “I would like to know what happened also.” 

 

Then he is at my side, kneeling beside me, hands dabbing at my face and I can see them, as he pulls away, covered in blood. 

 

“I did not do this,” he says to himself almost like a mantra, “I did not _do_ this.” 

 

“You did. One minute I was on the bed and the next down here. What did I do Legolas?”

 

“It was not you. I did not know it was you.” 

 

The calm and thoughtful Legolas of before has gone and in his place is one upset and agitated, much more recognisable if I am honest.  

 

“You have split your lip,” he cries in distress. “Aragorn needs to mend this!” 

 

“No _you_ have split my lip,” I say, “and I do not want Aragorn, not tonight.” My foster brother is definitely the last thing I need. “Just explain this to me, Legolas. What were you thinking? What were you seeing?”

 

But he sits back on his heels and shakes his head. 

 

“I cannot.” 

 

“I am sitting on the floor covered in blood and you cannot tell me why?” It is the most frustrating thing about him, the way he retreats to silence. I ask for information, I try to communicate and he stubbornly refuses to do so. He has done this as long as I have known him and I begin to get sick of it. How Maewen ever deals with it I do not know, but it leaves me feeling mistrusted and alone. 

 

“Come on, Legolas,” I say, pushing his hands away while I use my own to stem the flow of blood. “I am sick of this silence. In the middle of the night you attack me? I want to know why. Do not tell me you cannot ” 

 

The reaction I get is not one I expect. 

 

“Stop it!” He springs to his feet and leaves my head reeling. “Always you do this. Just stop! Give me enough time to think. You never let me speak!” 

 

What on earth does he mean? I have just _asked_ him to speak. 

 

I have no time to ask though for he spins on his heels and is gone. The slamming of the door behind him rocking even the wall I lean against. 

 

Then I am alone. Battered, bloody, confused and alone. 

 

My head hurts. My heart hurts. I close my eyes to shut out the spinning of the room and sit. I should go to Elladan but he will be disapproving. He will look at me With that look he has and I will know he thinks about what a mess I am. Now he even has the perfectness of Laerion while Legolas and I stumble from one chaos to the next. I do not have the energy to cope with that. 

 

It turns out I do not have to go to Elladan at all. He comes to me. I open my eyes when the door swings open thinking it is Legolas, gone out to the trees to settle his mind and returned. And he has come back but he brings Elladan with him. 

 

“Elbereth!” Elladan swears as he sees me. 

 

“It is not that bad,” I try to say but my lip swells and my words become a mumble.  

 

“What happened here? Have you been brawling like a pair of drunks in a tavern?” He turns to Legolas. “Are you responsible for this?” 

 

“Yes and no.” He ducks his head to avoid Elladan’s eyes. 

 

“What is that supposed to mean? He hardly hit himself.” 

 

“I am right here, Elladan. You can ask me.” I do not appreciate them talking over my head as if I do not exist and I wince as Elladan lifts a cloth to my face to wipe away the blood. He is not particularly gentle. 

 

“I am no more likely to get a straight answer from you. The last thing I needed tonight was to be awakened by Legolas babbling nonsense about you needing me. As I told Aragorn earlier, I am not your keeper and I am sick of patching up your dramas!” 

 

“It was an accident, Elladan. Please fix him.” 

 

I look across at Legolas as he speaks. He has sat himself against the wall opposite, curled in a ball of misery, arms clasped around his knees. One hand rubbing the other wrist as if it pains him. 

 

I have seen that before. 

 

And suddenly, just the sight of that, of him sittting there, unlocks that box in my mind where I have stored it all away, and it all comes tumbling out. Piece after awful piece, until the answer lies there clear  and horrific in front of me. 

 

I slap my brother’s hands away. 

 

“I get that you are angry. I get you are sick of being judged right alongside me but this is not Legolas’ fault. You will not take it out on him!” 

 

“If it is not his fault whose is it, Elrohir? You behaved appallingly this evening but coming to blows is no kind of answer. Will you just stay still. I do not want to be here all night. Let me stitch this.” 

 

“It is Aderthron’s fault.” I hiss. “He dreamed of Aderthron’s men and I was fool enough to try to hold him before he awakened. It was not me he hit but one of them!” 

 

“What?” Well at least I have managed to pierce my brother’s antagonism if nothing else. He is startled. “Is that true?” 

 

“It is true.” Legolas says quietly behind us. “But I was not able to say it.” 

 

“How often does this happen? Elladan is accusatory, “and why do I not know of it?” 

 

“It never happens. It has never happened and that is why, Elladan, there is nothing to know.” I tell him. “Now do what you must and then leave us alone.” 

 

He is quiet then thankfully. He puts me back together, carefully and wordlessly he stitches the gash upon my lip. 

 

“I suppose you want me to tell Aragorn this as well?” He sighs when he is finished and sits back on his heels to admire his handiwork. 

 

“No. I will tell him if I decide he needs to know.” 

 

He laughs at that. 

 

“You look as if you have lost an argument with an orc, Elrohir. How do you intend to hide this?” 

 

“I do not intend to. But I will tell him the details if and when Legolas wants me to tell him.” 

 

“Have it your way.” 

 

He pulls himself to his feet. 

 

“I will be off unless you decide you want to disturb my sleep further,” He may sound sarcastic and acerbic but as he turns to leave he pauses beside Legolas and drops a hand to rest upon his head. 

 

“Are you alright?” 

 

“Yes, I am alright.” 

 

“I should have brought Laerion with us.” Elladan says then. “It was foolish to leave him behind.”

 

“I do not need my brother to hold my hand, Elladan.” Legolas sighs. “I can handle this.” 

 

“But perhaps _he_ needs to be here to hold your hand for you.” 

 

He sighs as he tousles Legolas’ hair on his way past him. I believe we are a heavy burden to him. 

I am both relieved and apprehensive when he leaves. 

 

But the silence that follows the closing of the door is almost frightening. 

 

What to say? 

 

In the end it is Legolas who speaks first. 

 

“I am sorry,” he says. “I have no idea where this came from.” 

 

“I know where it comes from. Aragorn raised the subject, he was angry, you have dwelt on it all evening. When have you last thought of it at all?”

 

“Decades,” He sighs. “I thought Finrod and I had conquered it. How did you know?” 

 

He rubs at that wrist again, and it pains me to see it. I remember those burns of the ropes used to bind him. I remember those scars upon his fea, and I indicate his hands. He looks down at them with surprise as if he did not know he did that. 

 

“It hurts,” he says as way of explanation. “Thank you for telling Elladan when I could not.” 

 

Talking is not going to fix this. 

 

“Come here,” I tell him, and he does, to my surprise without hesitation. He sinks down beside me to lean against me with a sigh, and I cup my hand gently on top of his, the one that rubs at those imaginary wounds. “There is nothing there, Legolas. Those wounds are long healed. I know that.”

 

“But are they?” 

 

“Yes they are! This is but a bump in the road. Aragorn’s anger, your guilt over Eldarion, the remembering . . . It is just a bad combination.” I want to add in the Dagor Dagorath and his susceptibility to nightmares at the moment but I do not. It may just add damage upon damage and that would not be helpful. Plus to be honest I do not wish to talk about that. “You have the measure of this.” I say with perhaps more confidence than I feel. And I take his hand in mine so he has no choice but to leave his wrist alone. 

 

And I return to my earlier thoughts. I need to see Finrod. I need to talk to him no matter how uncomfortable it makes me. I cannot do this any longer half blind as I am now. I need to understand more completely how he heals so I can do the right thing during moments like this. 

 

I do not have my sister’s ability to search through others minds and Legolas definitely does not, but occasionally, in brief moments, it can be as if we do. It is like that now. He drops his head on my shoulder and I can feel him relax against me. 

 

“You are so good at this, Elrohir, your healing. You transform me. I wish you would speak to Finrod about some training.” He has said this to me over and over. And always I resist. It is love and love alone he feels. I have no ability to heal anything. I cannot explain to him the agony of my youth in the healing halls, failing over and over. Disappointing my father day after day though he never said it aloud.  I cannot do that again. Even for Legolas.

 

“It hurts me,” he says, “that I have said this so often and you will not listen.” 

 

I had not considered that. I never wanted to hurt. 

 

“Well perhaps I will see him,” I say. I can justify that. I have just been thinking I would talk to him . . . About Legolas, not myself. It is not a lie. “When we next see him I will talk to him.” 

 

“Talk to him about you,” he says, “not your Grandmother, or your father, or Elladan, or _me,_ but you.” How did he know I was thinking exactly that? 

 

“About me.” I say firmly, _about me and how I can best help you_. I qualify it in my head. But he will never know that.

 

And I have not told a lie.

 

 

 

 


	31. Chapter 31

* * *

 

 

**Aragorn**

 

The early morning banging upon my door is insistent and obviously foreshadows even more upheaval. A part of me wants to hide under the bedclothes and ignore it. Oh for the days I had guardsman at my door to turn demanding visitors away. 

 

“Are you going to answer that, Estel?” 

 

Arwen is awake and by the sounds of it as displeased at the noise as I am. Last night was draining. We could do with some respite. 

 

“I planned to let them get bored and leave. I am not in the mood for more drama.” 

 

“Aragorn, Open up!”

 

It is my brother. My most volatile, chaotic brother. I hate the way they call me Aragorn now. It feels so wrong. 

 

“Elrohir will never get bored and leave.” Arwen sighs beside me. “That is a false hope.” 

 

“You answer it then.” I mutter gracelessly but I struggle to my feet even as I say it. 

 

Sure enough it is Elrohir who faces me when I throw back the door but it is an Elrohir who shocks me. I planned to shut the door in his face to send him on his way but the sight of him freezes me where I stand.

 

“What has happened to you?” 

 

He looks as if he has been involved in a tavern brawl. His face is bruised and his lip split. I can see Elladan’s tiny sutures holding it together. 

 

“Never mind that.” Carelessly he waves away my surprised questioning using the window created by my shock to stride into the room. All hope of sending him on his way is gone. 

 

“Never _mind_ it? Elrohir what has been going on? Who did this?” 

 

“It is of no importance,” he says, barrelling on as if I had not spoken. “Elladan told you Estel has bolted and Eldarion follows?” 

 

“Yes.” It was the last straw in our exhausting evening. “We will follow after them today of course, but I want to know—”

 

It is Arwen who cuts across me this time, moving across the room when she sees the disaster that is her brother’s face. 

 

“Elrohir,” she is much gentler than I in her approach but she is just as shocked by his appearance. “What is this?” She murmurs lifting a hand to touch his battered lip. Though he bats her hand away he too is softer in his rejection. 

 

“Do not worry about it,” he sighs. “It was an accident only.” 

 

“An accident?” She tilts her head and narrows her eyes and he knows exactly what that means. 

 

“Do not!” He holds a hand up as if to defend himself from her. “Do not try and prise your way into my thoughts to find answers, Arwen!” 

 

“As if I would.” Arwen seems sweet and docile and deeply hurt at his accusations but we all know she would not hesitate to search his mind if she thought Elrohir’s welfare depended on it. 

 

Elrohir does not argue the point. Instead he returns his attention to me dropping the subject of his injury all together. 

 

“I need you to curtail your anger, brother,” he snaps at me, “in the presence of Legolas.” 

 

“You need me to what? Who do you think you are, Elrohir, to tell me how angry I may or may not be?” 

 

“I think I am one who loves him. One who knows him better than you.” 

 

“One who loves him? And I do not? It is nothing to do with love, Elrohir. He was my _friend_ and yet all those years he kept something so crucial, so important from me regarding my son. I have every right to be angry!” 

 

“And if you are still his friend you will hold your tongue!” 

 

“I _am_ still his friend, and we do not need you to manage our friendship. We will work through our problems ourselves as we have always done . . . Without your input!”  He is infuriating me. I am seconds away from ordering him from the room. 

 

Then, startlingly, he drops his voice. Instead of raging he is suddenly quiet. 

 

“I know to you it seems but a moment since you last saw us but to us it has been centuries. Do you not notice he is different?” 

 

“Of course I notice.” It is true. The Legolas who has returned to me is not the Legolas I left. He is lighter, more buoyant, and yet older, which seems a strange way to describe an immortal, ever young, elf. 

 

“Do you notice how relaxed he is here amongst men? Do you not remember how he held himself apart from nearly all them, always tense, always on edge, after Aderthron?” 

 

“Yes, I remember! How could I forget that? You insult me, Elrohir!” And I have noticed that. To me it is glaringly obvious how at ease amongst my people Legolas is now compared to the Legolas of before. Every time I saw him flinch when a man brushed against him accidentally, every time he moved so imperceptibly away from them, filled me with guilt that my people had done that to him. 

 

“Your anger has stirred up a hornets nest, Estel.” For once he uses the name he always used to call me. “I know you did not mean to. I know you have every right to be angry. I know a wrong was done to you and it hurts. I know all that, and Legolas knows it. But the mentions of Aderthron, added to your rage which hurts him, have opened doors he thought he had long ago closed, prodded wounds he thought he had conquered.”

 

It is Arwen who sees the truth of it before I do. 

 

“He did this.” She says sadly, reaching out to cup the side of Elrohir’s battered face. “Oh Elrohir.” 

 

To my horror he does not refute it. 

 

“Legolas is responsible for that?” It is incongruous with everything I know of my friend. He has always been volatile with a true Orophorion temper I have experienced more often than I would like but never have we come to blows. He has more control than that. 

 

“An accident as I said.” Elrohir is curt in his reply. “Your words sent him wandering upon less than pleasant dream paths. I was foolish enough to interrupt. It was not me he hit, but them—Aderthrons men.” 

 

I am appalled. 

 

“Speaking of Eldarion and Aderthron,” Elrohir continues, “which he dwelled on all evening, coupled with your anger . . . It was not a good combination. He is healed in so many ways but you found a chink in his armour. So I come to ask you to keep your displeasure well hidden, if you could. I understand you are angry, Estel, I do, but if you could temper it . . . ” 

 

I do not know what to say. I am angry. I am _so_ angry, but I do not want to drive him to nightmares. I do not want to destroy the precious ease with which he now moves amongst my men. 

 

“I can temper it.” I tell him. But I am not as confident of that as I sound. 

 

I see it the moment I lay eyes on Legolas, as we stand about waiting for the stablemen to organise our horses. I see what Elrohir was talking about. The effortless nonchalance he has demonstrated since he arrived here has vanished overnight. Now he is jumpy and tense, eyes flitting warily. It hurts me to see. I have loved the health and well-being he has oozed since his arrival. I would bottle that and keep it if I could. It is a treasure to me. 

 

He sees me watching. He catches my gaze but his eyes slide away.

 

“Go and talk to him, Estel” Arwen says beside me. 

 

But I cannot. 

 

“No,” I tell her flatly and she sighs. I have disappointed her. 

 

“Do not chose now to be so stubborn. He has waited so long for you. Do not destroy it all over this, Estel. You heard what Elrohir had to say. You are a better man than this.” 

 

Her words sting. 

 

“I did hear Elrohir. That is the point! And perhaps I am not a better man. Perhaps I am only human, Arwen, and flawed, as I told Eldarion last night. Perhaps I am sick of living up to the perfection always expected of me. I am angry. I cannot turn that off overnight. I cannot wipe that clean. I cannot pretend it did not happen, much as I might wish to! I promised Elrohir I would keep it under wraps and I will by keeping away. I do not trust myself otherwise.” 

 

She is not happy with my answer. 

 

“You are being a fool, Estel! Go and mend your bridges. He needs you too.” 

 

“He needs me not to stride over there and create more misunderstanding!” 

 

Honestly I am sick of this. Since when did they all think they could manage our friendship better than Legolas and I can ourselves? He may have changed but we still know the heart of each other. If I go over there, feeling as I do, one wrong word, from him or me, will explode in our faces. I know it. We have been here before. Misunderstanding and conflict are our trademark. I do not want that. I do not want to make things worse. I will stay away until I am more in control. 

 

He watches Arwen and I argue. I can feel those elven eyes upon me and she feels it too. She has heard Elrohir also, and her Galadriel-like sternness vanishes on the wind. Instead she lifts her face to lay a kiss upon my cheek. 

 

“I love all your flaws,” she smiles, and that beautiful smile winds it’s way through the knot in the pit of my stomach to soothe it, “for they make you my Estel. If you feel you cannot speak to him I will do it for you. I will tell him you still love him.” 

 

“Of course I still love him.” That is why the hurt stings so badly after all. “I keep him safe by staying away.” 

 

She lifts a hand to run it softly through my hair. 

 

“Perhaps . . . Perhaps not. But I will be your bridge since you need it.” 

 

She is the foundation my life is built upon. Without her I am nothing. 

 

She is all smiles and love and gentleness as she speaks to Legolas and I wonder what she says. His eyes soften as he listens, as she leans her head upon his shoulder. Long has he been her rock all those years in Minas Tirith , those long years of separation from her people. I hope now I can return her to them and find away for her to live amongst elves once more. There must be a way to balance her love for me with her need for them. 

 

“You have seen Elrohir this morning?” 

 

Elladan’s voice behind me makes me jump. He too stands and watches Arwen and Legolas.

 

“Yes I have seen him, and I saw your handiwork.” 

 

“Let us hope I have not spoiled his beauty.” He says wearily. He has shone with such a brilliant light since he has arrived here and now he is despondent. 

 

“I doubt anything could spoil his beauty,” I tell him. “The two of you are glorious, as you have always been.” 

 

“Laerion tells me we are too entwined,” he sighs. “He will be disappointed in me when I tell this tale. I stayed silent too long. I was too passive, as I always am. I allowed Elrohir to trample across it all because I am sick of being his control. I should have intervened. I am sorry Aragorn.” 

 

“None of this is your doing,” I tell him with a frown. 

 

“But it is. I knew about Eldarion and Estel. I spoke with them both and counselled them to tell you. I should have done more. I should have spoken to you myself . . . Or to Legolas. I should have stepped in last night when Elrohir was behaving so appallingly instead of letting him destroy it all with his anxiety. I did not know of the incident in Ithilien but had I been more active it could have been revealed with more control.” 

 

“That is a lot of ifs, Elladan. Perhaps all would still have played out exactly as it has.” 

 

“The end result is Legolas has taken a step backwards and Laerion will be angry with me for that, rightly so. The one thing he asked of me during this trip was to watch out for him. I knew he was already struggling.” 

 

“What do you mean?” I turn to him sharply. “What do you mean he was already struggling?” 

 

He shrugs his shoulders half-heartedly. 

 

“I do not even know. He has been so well and healed. A different Legolas, but lately he has seemed not quite right. Laerion has been concerned. I thought it was the tension of a possible reunion with you and how that might go, but Laerion believes it may be the Dagor Dagorath that causes the problem.” 

 

“The Dagor Dagorath?” 

 

“You saw his scar, Aragorn. That wound was lethal. He should not have survived. Only Finrod and Finarfin together could save him and Laerion worries there may have been lasting damage done even they could not repair.” 

 

That scar made me sick just to see it. Elladan is right. It is the scar of an unsurvivable injury. 

 

“Do you think Laerion is right?” I ask him. 

 

“I think all that goes on here is not helping and I have contributed to it.” He sighs heavily as he stands and watches Arwen and Legolas, dark and light heads together. 

 

“What does Legolas say?” I ask him, “what does he have to say of that injury?” 

 

“I have not asked him and Laerion he simply brushes aside. Elrohir may have spoken to him if it but if he has I do not know.” 

 

“Elrohir is not the best with death and loss.” I point out. “I know he has changed but my guess is he would wish to avoid that subject.” 

 

It is a rueful look Elladan gives me when he replies. 

 

“You are right. He has not changed that much. Perhaps you? . . . ” he trails off expectantly leaving the question hanging unspoken in the air. 

 

“Not at the moment.” I am firm in my refusal. “Now is not the time for me to speak with Legolas about delicate subjects. It is not the time for me to speak with him at all.” 

 

“Because?” 

 

“Because I am too angry. Because Elrohir has asked me to temper that and I will by staying away until I have more control.” 

 

I do not know where to begin to explain to any of them my feelings of betrayal or my hurt. It is obvious none of them understand it, not even Arwen. It is not even that Legolas patently did not trust me to react with care, that he so obviously thought me lacking as a father. I have always known no matter how confident I may be at leading my people, parenting my son has been something I flounder through like a blind man. Possibly he was right to doubt me. 

 

It is the thought of the damage done to my precious son because of my ignorance, damage I could have mitigated had I known. I could have done _something_ for him, arranged something before my death to take the burden of leadership from his shoulders and allow him to be true to himself. 

 

The incident with Lord Aderthron was possibly one of the worst moments of my life. Standing in front of the Lords, attempting to save Eldarion from himself, knowing what his rebellion and foolishness had done to my friend. I could not understand where my boy had developed the poisonous views he espoused. I could not fathom why he said and did the things he did. Now it is crystal clear. If I had only known. If Legolas has only told me it all could have been avoided. But the worst of it is Eldarion was hurting and I was denied any opportunity to help him. 

 

And I rage at that. 

 

“Aragorn—”

 

I am done with people telling me how to be when it comes to Legolas. They all may know him better than I do now but I know best the two of us together. I know how we are with each other.

 

“No Elladan. I am sick of the lot of you telling me what’s best to do with my friendship. It’s upsets me that my words and anger last night have caused Legolas harm. I did not intend that and I will not do that again. I know myself. I know the two of us. I know how this will end if I go over now, feeling as I do, and attempt conversation. The answer is no!” 

 

I need time to calm down. I need time to compose myself. I need time to ensure we can talk to each other without misunderstanding. I need time for the bitter edge of my hurt to have blunted. 

 

We need Gimli. That is who we need. We need Gimli who was always our foil when we could not say a civil word to each other. Gimli, who could sweet talk the flighty Legolas into sense when I could make no headway. Gimli, who would lecture me on my foolishness and my clumsiness with our Silvan friend. 

 

Gimli is who we need. 

 

And Gimli is not here.

 

 

 

 

 


	32. Chapter 32

**Aragorn**

 

It is not so easy to keep my distance from Legolas when there are just the four of us riding to find our boys. Elrohir sticks to him like glue however and so the fact I drop behind is perhaps not so noticeable. 

 

I argued we should go on foot. Neither Estel or Eldarion took a horse from the stables. Now we will need to stick to well trod paths wereas they likely have taken to the trees—at least Estel has if he is anything like his father. Were I having to track a horseless Legolas the trees would be where I would head. I may not know Eldarion as well as I thought I did but I know him well enough to know he also will assume Estel thinks like his father. 

 

But Legolas is adamant. We will ride he says. It is faster and they have a head start. On horses we will catch up with them quicker. I know exactly what it is he does. Elrohir and Elladan may constantly remind me I no longer know him but they are wrong. He attempts to buy them time. 

 

Legolas knows as well as I do his silvan son will not walk across the fields but instead will run in the trees. He knows Eldarion, ranger trained, will follow. He wants us to ride past them leaving them, on foot, in our wake. What I would love to know is why? 

 

But I cannot ask him. 

 

I try asking Elladan instead. 

 

When Elrohir and Legolas ride ahead and I drop behind Elladan falls back to join me. I give him a questioning look for I did not expect that and he rolls his eyes at me. 

 

“Elrohir and I are not in the best place at the moment,” he says. “I thought your company might be preferable.” 

 

“What is the rush?” I ask him. “Why is Legolas so determined to ride?”

 

“Who knows.” He is no use at all then. “Perhaps he wishes to beat Estel back to Maewen to tell his side of the story first? She is a demon when it comes to defending her boy.” I can well imagine that. Maewen always was fiery and determined. When I knew her it was Legolas she defended but I can see her being absolutely terrifying as a mother. Perhaps Legolas does well to ensure he gets home first. 

 

“I look forward to seeing her,” I tell him and it is genuine. “Even if she is unhappy with me.” 

 

“Oh she will be unhappy with us all.” 

 

It is nearly midday when Legolas calls back to us and the light in his voice takes me completely by surprise. 

 

“Riders ahead!” He shouts, then he turns to look at Elladan with a flash of of his old cheeky grin. “Your beloved if I am not mistaken!” 

 

For a moment he confuses me. Elladan’s beloved? It takes a minute or two for me to put two and two together for I am not used to Elladan having any beloved at all. 

 

“How far are we from Legolas’ people?” I exclaim. Surely we are not there yet. He cannot have been so close all this time. 

 

“Far enough away that Laerion should not be here.” Elladan replies. “What is he doing?” Still he urges his horse to move faster. 

 

I may be looking forward to meeting Maewen but I am not filled with joy at all about the thought of Laerion. 

 

Legolas is off his horse and running. His brother who meets us is more circumspect. He dismounts slowly, carefully, sensibly. Even if Legolas had not told us his identity I would know him in an instant. We have met before, and it did not go well. But that meeting aside Laerion is still obviously Laerion. He can be no other than Legolas’ brother. He looks so disarmingly like Thranduil. 

 

He holds Legolas at arms length gazing at him as if there is a mystery there that needs to be solved. 

 

“How are you young one?” 

 

Arwen calls Legolas that occasionally, the only person I have known to get away with it . . . Until now. 

 

“I am well, brother!” Legolas laughs, “stop your worrying!” His brother makes him happy. That much is obvious. 

 

It is then Laerion’s gaze drifts across Legolas’ shoulder to where I stand. I know the moment he sees me. He catches my gaze and his eyes, filled with warmth and care for my friend, turn to stone. 

 

So he has not forgiven me then. 

 

I am pinned under a Thranduillion gaze that finds me lacking. It is most uncomfortable, but in a flash it is gone. His eyes continue past me. His face, stony cold at the sight of me, transforms to become a beacon. In an instant he shines with a joyful love. 

 

He sees my brother. 

 

And in that moment I almost like him, for I have never seen anyone look upon Elladan that way, and I rejoice at the sight of it. Three long strides and he is with us, holding my brother tight in a most unelvish way.

 

I hear the whisper, “ _I have missed you_.” before he lets him go. 

 

And Elladan glows. The light that transformed him since our first meeting—that light so obviously absent since last night—has returned. It makes him even more glorious than he has always been. 

 

And then the disconcerting gaze of Thranduil returns to me, at much closer quarters. I feel smaller than a gnat upon the ground. 

 

“We meet again, Elessar,” he says, voice cold and tight. Fist against his chest and a nod of the head. The briefest, most reluctant of elven greetings. I get the feeling it is only Elladan’s presence next to us that keeps him polite. 

 

“Laerion.” I return his greeting in kind. “Elladan has been telling me much about you.” Perhaps if I remind him of my brother beside me, who he so obviously adores, he will forget his dislike of me. Anything to distract him from our last meeting which was so disastrously antagonistic. 

 

Elladan saves me. He must be aware of our swirling animosity.

 

“What are you doing here?” He exclaims, “so far from home? You cannot have known we were on the road.” 

 

“I do what I told you I would do!” he exclaims throwing his arm out to indicate the elf he rides with. 

 

As I follow the direction he points in I wonder how on earth I did not notice his companion before. 

 

Tall—he towers above my brothers—golden, magnificent, mesmerising, there stands the most glorious elven warrior I have ever seen.  

 

I am Estel who was raised in Imladris amongst the most impressive of Elven nobility. I had Elrond Maglorion as a foster father, Glorfindel of Gondolin taught me the sword. I know elves, they do not scare me. I am wed to Arwen Undómiel, most beautiful of their kind. 

 

And this elf renders me speechless. 

 

I am rooted to the spot. Staring like one of my people who believe elves magical and fey in their ignorance.

 

He stands, nonchalantly, an arm across Legolas’ shoulders and his eyes light up when he catches my gaze.

 

“My small Silvan, you have brought me someone interesting!” He cries. 

 

“I have brought you my _friend_.” Legolas replies, seemingly unaware of his companions gloriousness. A part of me, despite my awe is relieved to hear him still describe me as that. 

 

At that the warrior withdraws his arm, pulls himself to his full height—which is quite intimidating—and approaches me. 

 

“Elessar.” He says bending his head low, far more reverently than Laerion but I have an unnerving feeling he may be mocking me. “My sister tells me they call you thus. I have been eager to meet you. She has high praise for you.” 

 

His sister? My mind reels through a list of Elleth I have known and comes up with no sense at all. 

 

And he stands and waits for my response. I feel a fool. I am a King. I have stood before the Black Gates to face Sauron himself. Where is my fortitude? 

 

“My Lord,” I say for he must be one, but I am not even close to being brave enough to guess at his name.  

 

It is Elladan who saves me. 

 

What would my life have been like without Elladan, my gentle, thoughtful brother? He has always been the first, as long as I can remember, to step forward and bridge the gap between myself and the elven world I found myself dwelling in. Only twice have we been seriously at odds; over Arwen, and when I bought Legolas back from doors of Mandos Halls. That terrible time when I was jumbled myself while Legolas drowned beneath the roar of the sea and worst of all of it was that temporary loss of Elladan as my support. 

 

“Uncle,” he says and suddenly it all falls into place. I know who he is. He is not just a lord but a king. He is one of the exiles. He crossed the Helcaraxë, sang songs of power against Sauron, ruled Nargothrond. He is one of the ancient Elven legends I studied as a boy. He is Findaráto. “Elessar is too formal,” Elladan continues beside me as my thoughts tumble in chaos. “This is Estel, our foster brother.” 

 

“Family then,” Finrod smiles and that smile is as disarming as the rest of him. “But I already know one Estel so that name will not do. Let us start again, Aragorn son of Arathorn. I am Finrod Felagund. It is good to meet you.” 

 

And he extends his hand for me to take. It is incongruous, such a mannish greeting from such an elven being. Still, numbly I take it. 

 

His hand, slim and elegant, is full of power, an incredible amount of power. Yet against my skin in the midst of that handshake I feel something I recognise. The coolness of metal alongside the warmth of familiarity. I know the feel of it like I know my own name. And when I drop my eyes sure enough it is my ring. 

 

_My_ ring, the one I wore nearly all my adult life, the one I left to my son on my departure. How is it here on Finrod’s hand? Surely Eldarion handed it on to Gilrean’s boy who followed after him, and he passed it on to another and then another. 

 

I am too obvious. Finrod sees me staring. 

 

“Ah, the ring.” He says casually, twisting it off his finger. “Of course you remember it. Would you like to hold it for old times sake?” 

 

Would I like to? A foolish question. My finger has felt naked without that ring since my rebirth here. I go to twist it when my hands are at a loss for something to do and there is nothing there. 

 

“The ring of Barahir,” I say as I gaze upon it lying where he has placed it in my hand. 

 

“The ring of _Finrod_.”He says firmly as he takes it back. “It was mine before it was ever Barahir’s” 

 

“How does it come to be here?” I ask him. “How do you have it?” 

 

“Your son sent it back to me across the sea.” 

 

“My son?” 

 

“His _son_?” He turns to Elladan questioningly as if he is not sure he has it right. 

 

“Yes, his son.” Elladan confirms. “Eldarion gave it to us to take back to Aman when we left.” he explains to me.  “A sign Finrod’s vow to Barahir was fulfilled.”

 

“He did not tell me.” 

 

Why did he not tell me this? I take one last look at that ring with a pang of regret as Finrod places it back upon his finger. Of course he is right. It always was his. It was never really mine. 

 

“I cannot wait to meet your son. He must be a fine man.” Finrod is serious as he says it. “I will thank him when I see him.” 

 

“He is. He is a fine man.” 

 

“Like father like son then apparently” he smiles. “If Legolas’ hyperbolic descriptions of you are to be believed,” and I give Legolas a startled glance. What has he been saying? “Although He is Silvan,” Finrod drops his voice to murmur to me, “and so prone to flightiness and exaggeration.”  

 

Is he teasing? 

 

I do not know how to take him. 

 

He reaches out a hand to cup my chin lifting my face to gaze at it. A gaze so intense I cannot meet it and I pride myself in being one who can stand any elven gaze. 

 

“You have the look of Barahir about you” He says. “I see it in the eyes. And a lot of Earendil there as well.” 

 

“ _Earendil_?” 

 

I hardly think so. 

 

But he nods firmly. As if he has determined it is so and so it will be so. 

 

“Do you not agree, Elladan?” he asks and Elladan smiles at the disbelief on my face. “Oh yes,” he says, but he is laughing at me. “I have always thought so.” 

 

“Well you have never said it!” I snap back and he laughs out loud. 

 

Quick as a flash Finrod is done with me . . . For now. He removes the heavy weight of that attention from me and turns back to Legolas. 

 

“Where are we headed little Silvan?”

 

“Home.” 

 

“Then home it is. I have been too long on the road. I am missing some silvan hospitality. Have you experienced it, son of the Edain?” He asks me,  but he answers his own question. “Of course you have, you know him.” A nod to Legolas and he is off, back to his horse where Elrohir stands moodily, Laerion following after, Elladan at his side. I think I have lost my travelling companion. 

 

The touch on my shoulder as I stare after them makes me jump. 

 

“It is disconcerting seeing that ring, I know,” Legolas stands beside me. “It upset me when I first saw it. I did not know Eldarion had sent it back to him. Then Finrod tore strips off me.”

 

“Why?”  

 

“For assuming my grief ran deeper than anyone else’s. He was right to do it. I have found he is always right.” 

 

“Are you coming?” Finrod calls to Legolas but then he stops to look at me head tilted to one side as if he considers something. “Now I think on it you look like your father,” he tells me, “but then I suppose you know that.” 

 

It is a strange thing to say.

 

“I do not know what my father looks like.” I reply. 

 

“He looks like you.” 

 

Then he is on his horse and moving away.

 

“He has met your father!” There is a breathless excitement to Legolas’ words. 

 

“You forget your history. He died long before my father ever lived. He was _reborn_ before my father died.” 

 

“No!” Legolas turns to me and his eyes are dancing. He looks so alive for a moment I forget I am angry with him. “He has been on the road, exploring the land, searching for new people. He has met your father. That is what he tells you!” 

 

“He has met my father?” 

 

 

 

He has met my _Father_. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	33. Chapter 33

**Eldarion**

 

Estel’s look of expectation as he sits across the fire from me freezes my tongue. I have no idea what to say and eventually curiosity turns to impatience. I see it in his face. 

 

“I do not know what to say to you.” I confess in the end. “Nothing seems enough.” 

 

“What did you want to say when you followed me out here?” 

 

“I wanted to apologise. I wanted to make things right.” 

 

He drops his eyes and stares at his fingers as they fiddle with the edge of his sleeve. 

 

“You have not done that yet,” he says. 

 

“I know.” 

 

“Tell me why you did it. I explained to you how important it was to me that I told my father. Tell me why you ignored that. Did you not care what I said?” 

 

“I did care. I did not intend any of that to happen!” I do not know how to explain to him properly the feeling of that cage closing around me. 

 

“I was afraid,” I say in the end. “It felt as if I was being trapped by Elrohir’s words, that I would end up having to live another life being someone I am not. I could not breathe with the dread of it. So I hit back. I would do anything . . . Anything . . . Not to live that life again. The thought of it suffocates me. But I have ended up hurting you and I never wanted that.” 

 

“You threw my father to the wolves,” he says solemnly. “That is what I am angriest about. You did not have to do that.” 

 

He is right. I did not have to do that. I did not have to mention Ithilien at all. 

 

“I think . . .” I pause to try and sort through my thoughts, “I think I am still angrier about what happened in Ithilien than I realised.” 

 

“Then you should have spoken to Father about it, _alone_. Not held him up for your father to attack as some kind of revenge! It was you who asked him to keep it secret then you told everybody anyway.” 

 

“I know.” Everything he says is true. “I owe him an apology for that and I will give it.” 

 

The silence that stretches out after my admittance of guilt is a heavy one and it is Estel who breaks it. 

 

“I know him,” he says. 

 

“You know who?” 

 

“Meluion. I have met him.” 

 

“Is he here?” My heart skips a beat. I do not know if I want the answer to that question to be yes or no.

 

“No. He is with my grandfather and the Sindar in Aman. One day soon they will come out here and I imagine he will too. I never understood why he lived there, a Silvan who did not wish to dwell in our woods. It was strange. Now it makes sense.” 

 

The relief that surges through me tells me I am not ready to meet Meluion again yet. As I ponder on that Estel changes the subject. 

 

“Did you talk to your father?” 

 

His directness throws me. 

 

“Yes.” 

 

“And what did he say?”

 

I take a deep breath as I try to remember the details of it.

 

“He was most concerned about knowing why I chose not to tell him what happened in Ithilien and why I asked Legolas to remain silent. He could not understand it. It hurt him. But I could not help him with that for I truly cannot remember now. I do not know why I made those decisions so long ago. They no longer make sense to me.” 

 

“But what did he say about me?” Estel asks impatiently. “What did he say about us?” 

 

“About us?” I am stalling for time. I do not wish to tell him what my father had to say on that and yet right now I cannot afford to lie about it either. Not when he already does not trust me. I have to spit it out. 

 

“He asked me if it was a repeat of what had gone before. He said he was concerned you were a convenient elf who happened to be here and I was using you to recapture what happened in Ithilien. It is nonsense.” 

 

“I worry about that too.” 

 

Estel stops me dead in my tracks. 

 

“What?” 

 

He shrugs his shoulders as if it is of no import when actually his words are a heavy weight upon my heart. 

 

“I worry about that. That you are angry about the past. You want to prove to your father, your people, yourself, you can be different, and here I am in the right place at the right time for you to throw in your fathers face as proof. A convenient elf is a good way to put it.” 

 

It is horrifying. 

 

How do I find the words to explain to him how he makes me feel when I am with him? How do I do that? 

 

“That is not it at all, Estel,” I cry in frustration. “You have no idea . . . You are special. Your light . . . It lifts me from within. It makes my heart leap when I see you, just a glimpse is enough. Everything about you is exquisite and beautiful and marvellous to me. You are not just convenient . . . Never!” 

 

I have no idea how to wrap up everything magical about him in words. 

 

Obviously what I have chosen to say is not it for he frowns as if I have made him even more unhappy. 

 

“Why did you say you loved me?” He asks bluntly. “Why did you say that to my father, our parents? We have not spoken of that and it was certainly not the right time to bring it up.”

 

“I do not know?” Did I say that? I cast my mind back over that conversation. “It just slipped out. I have been truly in love only once before and this seems so much bigger than that.” 

 

“We barely know each other.”

 

“It is beyond that.” I am so dramatically failing to explain this to him. 

 

He leans forward intently, face serious, eyes glinting in the moonlight. 

 

“It frightens me, Eldarion,” he says. 

 

That takes my breath away and leaves me grasping for an appropriate response. I find none.

 

“I am Silvan,” he continues. “You must know we see love differently. I am not used to this intensity you show me. I am not there yet, if ever. I want to understand you first, to explore the togetherness of us. Your words scare me. I am not sure I can live up to them. I am not sure I should try to.” 

 

It is a body blow. 

 

“I will not say it then.” I say desperately. “If it frightens you I will not say it.”

 

“If you still feel it does that change anything?” he asks. 

 

“I cannot change the way I feel! I promise I will not hold it up to the light if it discomforts you. Not until you are ready to hear it.” 

 

“What if I am never ready to hear it?” 

 

“Then I will live with that. It is my risk to take, Estel. I only want you to be happy.” 

 

“And I only want you to be free,” he says quietly, “but I do not want to hurt you.” 

 

That is easy to answer.

 

“You will hurt me more if you do not give us the chance to find out where this might lead at all.” 

 

He is right about one thing. In the middle of an argument with my father was entirely the wrong time for me to raise the subject of the depth of my feelings when he did not know them.

 

He is silent again then but not for long. As much as the silence is uncomfortable when he actually speaks I wish he had remained quiet. 

 

“Tell me,” he says, “Who is this Aderthron they spoke of? Why did your father say you spread hatred? Why did he stand in front of his council in your defence? How is any of that my father’s fault? What did all of that mean?”

 

Oh I am not ready to tell that story yet. 

 

“It is complicated, Estel.” 

 

He will not let me of the hook so easily. 

 

“We have all night,” he says, “and as far as I know I am not slow witted. I am sure you can explain it.” 

 

“It is the part of my life I am most ashamed off,” I confess. “I am afraid you will not be able to hear it without hating me.” 

 

“I do not think that will happen,” he says firmly, but it is easy for him to say that when he does not know the truth of it. 

 

How do I tell this tale and not come out of it disastrously? 

 

“It happened not long after the nightmare with Meluion,” I may as well try and enable him to understand what a mess I was. “I was angry, and hurting. I felt shamed. I believed I was a disappointment to my father, not that he ever said that of course. I would never be his equal. He was Elessar Telcontor, the King returned, Isildur’s heir, one of the Three Hunters and the nine walkers. He was the saviour of Gondor. How could I ever measure up to that? There was nothing special about me. I showed a talent for healing but then my father was the best healer our people had ever seen. I was the best with the bow in Minas Tirith But what use was that? It was not like I was a Silvan. I would be a King. I needed to use the sword. I was good but Father was taught the sword by Glorfindel himself. Next to him I was nothing.” 

 

He lets me talk. He says nothing, but he never takes his eyes off me. 

 

“You would not understand,” I say lamely. 

 

“But I _do_ understand. My father is Legolas, remember. They sing songs of him in Valinor. Whereas I have done nothing . . . And am unlikely to ever do anything.” 

 

Perhaps he is does know what I am trying to tell him.

 

“What happened in Ithilien was just one more thing,” I continue. “One more thing to make me feel as if I failed my father. My people do not tolerate men loving men. It is not accepted. How could I be their King the way I was? Lord Aderthron was one of my father’s lords whose land lay near Ithilien. No one was interested in Ithilien before the elves. It was a wasteland, but Legolas and his people had restored it so it was once again rich, productive and valuable. Adrerthron wanted it for himself. He was sly and cunning and hated my father. He saw my lack of self belief, my anger at my life, the instant he arrived in Minas Tirith and he exploited that. He exploited me. At the beginning I thought he was a friend. He sweet-talked me, told me all the things I wished to hear about how clever he thought me, how sad it was my father did not support and appreciate me. I was lonely and  too naive to be watchful. I did not consider he would use me in political machinations.

 

“He convinced me the elves of Ithilien secretly wished to return to the Greenwood now their work was done and that Father held them in Gondor against their will due to his friendship with Legolas, that it would be kinder to let them leave. . . Because after all Ithilien was Gondor land and should be for Gondorians.” 

 

Estel’s face as he listens to me grows stiller and stiller. I cannot tell what he is thinking, but I plow on. 

 

“I argued with my father over it, and then Legolas when he came visiting. I pushed the elves away. I hurt my mother by proclaiming they were nothing to do with me. I was still angry with Legolas over Meluion, angry with my father because I could never be as good as him, and it all became entangled together in my mind. I was outspoken about it to others though Father warned me to keep it to myself. He warned me I was a pawn in someone’s bigger game. I did not believe him. 

 

“But then I began to have doubts. There were things about Aderthron that did not ring true. I was visiting him when an urgent messenger arrived one evening. He abandoned me and I followed, and what I found. . . ”

 

The next is possibly the hardest thing I have ever had to tell anyone in my life. 

 

“What I found was Legolas. They had caught him, tied and bound him, beat him, Aderthron’s men. Aderthron was incensed. He swore at them they had ruined all his plotting to manipulate the prince. I knew then Father was right. I had been used. It was dark. There was only Legolas and I and he was bound. When I showed my face I had only a moment to use their shock before they realised I was just a boy and no threat at all.” 

 

“What did you do?” His voice when he speaks is tight and guarded.

 

“I pretended I was my father. I tried to mimic his power. I commanded them to leave the city, all of them, before I called the guards. It was the only thing I could think of to do to enable Legolas and I to escape. They let go of him when I first appeared and he fell and hit his head. He was so still. I was terrified for him.” 

 

“So you obviously survived then.” Estel says curtly, “Both of you.” 

 

He is angry and I do not blame him.

 

“The captain of the guard appeared and helped me get Legolas to safety. My father . . . He was so angry. Tonight was nothing compared to that. He could barely bring himself to speak to me. Legolas was a mess. The blow to his head magnified his previous damage and he woke unable to speak a logical sentence we could understand. Father banished me to work with the scribes so he did not have to see me. He had to call Faramir for there was a trial. They accused me of sedition. Legolas was the son of the Elvenking, an honourable visitor to our city. An attack on him was abhorrent and everyone had heard me complaining about the elves.” 

 

The silence when I pause for breath is deafening. 

 

“That was when they discovered my elven fea” I say miserably. “Legolas noticed it and then Elladan. My mother confessed she had known all along. They decided my elven immaturity had been a factor in me misinterpreting Aderthron so badly. They could not tell the Lords that though—another way I was a failure. Father had to stand up in front of the council and plead my case. He had to admit he had failed me as a parent.” 

 

It is so difficult to talk about that. 

 

“In the end Aderthron was trapped with his own words. Legolas saved me despite it all. They sent me away then, to Imladris with Elladan and Elrohir, and to spend time with Father’s people, the Rangers. I enjoyed that at least.” 

 

“Is that all?” Estel asks harshly when I finally stumble to a stop. 

 

“Yes. The important parts anyway.” 

 

He sits forward eyes flashing. 

 

“Is it true Elrohir attacked you? 

 

I did not expect that. I can almost feel the colour drain from my face. 

 

“Yes that is true. Well perhaps attack is too harsh a word. They called for him as he had been visiting in Rohan. He was angry when he arrived and saw what I had done, so angry about Legolas. He pinned me against a wall. I cut my head in the process. Hardly an attack really. He did not hit me. I was young though so it felt worse than it was.” 

 

“You see,” I say when he does not speak. “I told you you would hate me.” 

 

He stares at his hands.

 

“I can see why you are ashamed of that,” he says at last. “There is much to be ashamed of.”

 

“Yes. But I need you to know I am not that boy any longer. I am nothing like him. I never was really.” 

 

Slowly he raises his head and looks me in the eyes. 

 

“I think,” he says slowly, “My father has obviously forgiven you and it was him you hurt. Who am I to refuse forgiveness when he can find it in his heart?” 

 

I let out the breath I did not even know I held in a rush. 

 

“I understand now why Aragorn-the-King was so angry my father did not tell him about you and Meluion in the midst of that. That was wrong I think,” he adds. 

 

“You must understand, after they hurt him, Legolas could barely speak anything but Silvan.” 

 

“I know his problems with language. I grew up with it!” There is an edge to his voice and he says it too quickly. There is still anger there even if he is prepared to offer me forgiveness. 

 

“It is late.” He says suddenly lying himself down, arms behind his head as he looks to the canopy above us. “And I have much to think on. You can sleep if you like. I will not be.” 

 

“I am sorry, Estel.” 

 

I am out of things to say. All I have left is this. 

 

“About what?” 

 

“About all of it.” 

 

“I will see you in the morning,” is all he says. 

 

Our conversation is at an end. He has had enough of it. 

 

I have said all I can say and more besides.

Legolas has given me a window and I have taken it but I do not know if I have done enough. 

 

Or if I have only made things worse. 

 

 

 


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit boring this time. Estel and Eldarion would not shut up!

 

**Eldarion**

 

When I wake up in the morning he is gone. 

 

The fire still burns low but the clearing is empty and I wonder . . . What do I do? Carry on and follow him, or take this as a firm rejection and return home? Legolas follows us both at any rate so am I really needed?

 

He has obviously thought on my story of last night, the mess that was Aderthron, and decided it was too much to forgive after all. It hurts, but really, I do not blame him. 

 

I prod the fire as I ponder what to do. . . Where to go . . . 

 

“Good morning!” 

 

He makes me jump a mile as he drops unexpectedly out of the trees in front of me. He is bright, as he was not last night. He radiates light and he laughs, a silvery song of pure joy, at my surprise. 

 

I thought you gone!” 

 

Completely the wrong thing to say. 

 

He was joy filled and luminous and it all bleeds away. 

 

“I told you I would watch over you. Why would I then go?” 

 

“You were angry.” Clumsily I attempt to scramble back to where we were moments before. 

 

“Angry, but not irresponsible or neglectful,” he frowns. “This is what I meant last night, Eldarion. We do not know each other. If you knew me you would know I would not leave my post no matter how angry I was.” He deposits his pack upon the ground with a sigh.

 

“I went to get my _things_ ,” he continues with no small amount of sarcasm. “Which I hid when I came in search of you. They were weighing me down if there was—infact—a threat. I was always in earshot.” He bends over to fumble for something within his pack. 

 

“I thought you might be hungry.” 

 

He pulls out something, is it mushrooms? I cannot tell. And he turns his back to me, prodding the fire into life as he kneels beside it. I have no way of seeing what it is he does. 

 

“I am sorry, Estel.” 

 

“I wish you would stop saying that,” he grumbles. “I am sick of it.” In a moment he has gone from a shining beacon of happy light to sullen moodiness. 

 

“What else is there for me to do?” 

 

He leans back upon his heels then and turns his head to look back at me over his shoulder. 

 

“I have decided,” he says, “we need to go backwards. That is what I want. To go back to the beginning.” 

 

So even though he is still here, he may as well not be. A sinking feeling devours my stomach. 

 

Back to the beginning means barely speaking. 

 

“If that is what you want.” 

 

There is no point arguing with him. I did all my arguing last night. I have nothing left to say. 

 

“It is what I want.” He says determinedly, turning back to his cooking. “I think it is the best way to do things.” 

 

“So I will go home.” 

 

There is nothing else to do it seems. 

 

But his head whips round to look at me with astonishment and there is confusion in his eyes.

 

“Do you not want to come with me to my woods?” 

 

He has wrong-footed me. I am not sure what it is he is trying to tell me or what it is he wants and I am beginning to get frustrated by it. 

 

“Well what is the point?” I ask him. “Legolas follows after you. You do not need me to escort you all the way because as he said, you are quite capable. I may as well go home.”

 

And his shoulders slump. He turns back to the fire with a sigh. 

 

“I suppose there is no real point” he says quietly. “I thought you might enjoy it. You could relax. It would give you a chance to be you without having to worry about your men and what they might think. It would be a good place to get to know each other. I realise you would have to go back when Father and Aragorn-the-King go in search of Gimli.” It is the heaviest of sighs he makes then. “If they ever do now, of course. Which looks unlikely.” 

 

“Of course they still will!” 

 

Every word he says becomes more confusing. There are many things in that last statement I want to question but the suggestion either my father or Legolas would let the other go off to find Gimli in their own is a ridiculous one. 

 

“Did you not see them last night?” He says. “Where were you? Did you not see how angry your father was?” 

 

“He is angry, yes, but not at the expense of the two of them finding Gimli.” 

 

“Well it will be a very miserable trip,” Estel says despondently, “while they hate each other.” 

 

“They do not hate each other. This is what they always do, how they always are. They will work through it.” I tell him but he rolls his eyes at me in disbelief. 

 

“Do not make me feel better by lying! I grew up with my father’s stories of their wonderful friendship.”

 

“Well then he left some things out.” Too late I remember Estel has never seen my father and Legolas together before. He does not know anything about how they usually are with each other. “For every tale you have heard from Legolas about their closeness I can tell you another when they have been at odds. Misunderstandings and falling outs are their speciality. The strength of their friendship is that they always overcome them.”

 

But he snorts in disbelief. 

 

“Do you try to tell me Father lies? Why would he do that? To what end?” 

 

“Because he remembers their good times better than the bad? Because it is easier to tell a small son about adventures and companionship than the time he stormed out of Minas Tirith and sent all Father’s letters back unopened for a month? Because he realises they have been occasionally guilty of behaving like children with each other and did not wish to confess that to you, his own child?” 

 

He stares at me, his mouth set in a stubborn line of scepticism.

 

“Because when someone is dead you only wish to remember the good and not the bad, Estel,” I add. 

 

“I would not know.” He says in the end. “I am a Valinor elf, remember. I know nothing of death.” 

 

I do not believe that for a second. 

 

“On the contrary,” I tell him, “I think you know a lot about death . . .and grief. Growing up as Legolas’ son how could you not, but I will explain. All those years I lived after my father died I did not remember our disagreements. I did not remember all the times he frustrated me or all my moments of resentment. I remembered his intellect, his skill with people, his strength. I remembered how safe he made the world feel. I would sit in his study to try and capture his presence so it would guide me to the right decisions. All our bad moments simply melted away. Perhaps that is why Legolas has not mentioned them to you? But whatever the reason is I tell you they did have them. I know last night was one of their worst but I have seen similar. They always overcome.” 

 

He hesitates. Has he heard me?

 

“My Father has waited a lifetime for this reunion,” he says at last, “and I have ruined it for him.” 

 

“If anyone has ruined it, it is me. I was the one who pleaded with Legolas to keep quiet about Ithilien and I was the one who revealed it in possibly the worst circumstances because I was angry. But I tell you—with confidence—this will not inflict so much as a dent on our fathers friendship in the end. It runs too deep, it is too important to them for that.” 

 

He is silent then, bent over the fire, poking aimlessly at whatever it is he cooks. 

 

“That smells delicious.” I tell him, and it does. 

 

“Breakfast.” 

 

I can not identify the concoction he hands me. Vegetables? plants? something he has collected from the forest floor? Warm and steaming, wrapped up in a broad wide leaf. He catches me peering at it suspiciously. 

 

“Do not worry, it was Erynion who taught me to cook, not my father.” 

 

He makes me laugh out loud. I cannot help it. It was a standing joke with both my father and Gimli that Legolas’ cooking was terrible. It was always Gimli who took charge of their meals when they went travelling. 

 

“I am sorry,” I tell him. “I just remember Gimli. He complained so badly of Legolas’ food. He would not let him cook anything!” 

 

“Well he was right then.”

 

 I am rewarded, out of nowhere, with a brilliant Estel grin. Short and sweet, just a flash of one. 

 

“Then I am glad you learned from someone else.” 

 

It is a relief to see that smile no matter how fleeting. 

 

“One of the benefits of having three fathers.” He signs but he says it with affection and settles himself down, with his own food, next to me—but not too close. “There is always one of them who is an expert at whatever it is I need to know. Of course then there are the times all three of them are unhappy with me. That is not pleasant.” 

 

“Three fathers seems rather complicated to me.” I reply. “I struggle to communicate with just one.” and he looks across at me in surprise. 

 

“But didn’t you have exactly that?” he asks. 

 

“What do you mean?” 

 

“My father describes himself as being as close to you when you were small as Erynion is to me. He tells stories of things he did with you which sound very much like fatherhood to me. I used to resent it, that you had such happy times with him while with me he was always a step away from misery. I felt you got the best of him as a father.” 

 

“But—” I am about to tell him he has it wrong, but does he? I am accosted by a rush of my Legolas memories. Legolas on his hands and knees playing in the mud with me, Legolas patiently teaching me the mysteries of the growing of plants, Legolas teaching me the bow, how to communicate with his elven horses and calm them, how to climb to the highest treetops, his patient, gentle talks with me after the Aderthron disaster as I attempted to organise my emotions. It does feel like fatherhood. An elven fatherhood.

 

Then there was Gimli. Solid, sturdy, with gruffness that was surprisingly comforting. I saw less of him but I remember clearly my childish excitement when I did. He would seek me out the moment he arrived in Minas Tirith, with Legolas in tow or without. He would take me to the walls to wonder at their craftsmanship, and to the caves outside the city where we clamboured and adventured and he illuminated me on the secrets of the stone. He was closer to my size and he would take me upon his broad shoulders when I was very small and we would race against the long legged Legolas, charging at him in mock battles. I feel a surge of grief for that brusque, no nonsense dwarf I have not seen for so long that chokes my words. 

 

It is not Gimli I speak of however when I answer. 

 

“Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I did have three fathers in a way though I have never thought of it like that. But the time with Legolas was not always as joyful as he has obviously described it to you. The sealonging always hovered at the edges of it. At first I did not know what it was. I did not understand why my parents became so upset when he spoke of the sea, and he so often did. Every conversation we had he could turn to a discussion of the sound of the waves on the shore, the gulls in the sky. His obsession with the sea confused me. 

 

“It would distress my father and also my mother. They worried deeply about it when it was at its worst and consumed him. Gimli was the best at turning his thoughts from the waves and back to the trees and the woods. In the end, when I was grown, it weighed him down completely until it swallowed him whole. When he left us to sail to Valinor he was giddy with it. It was as if the sea could smell the nearness of its victory and exploded all over him. He was delirious with joy that day he left. He could see nothing but the sea, hear nothing but the gulls. It was to be the last time he saw me . . .forever . . . And yet he did not see me at all. He left Elrohir behind who he adored and yet he laughed and cavorted in the face of Elrohir’s misery. Gimli, Maewen, Erynion, all mourned the loss of the land yet Legolas acknowledged none of it. It was a cruel thing to see and I am sure—when he arrived in Valinor and the sea-longing left him—he must have regretted that so bitterly, that it stole from him those proper goodbyes.” 

 

His eyes, as he looks at me, are horrified. 

 

“I did not know. My parents never mention the sealonging. I knew it brought Father across the sea but, that he did that to Elrohir . . . ”

 

“It was not Legolas who did that.” I am as firm as I can be in my response. “The sea-longing had him by the throat. It must have been devastating when he arrived on the other side and the sea abandoned him, finally allowing him to be able to think clearly.”  

 

I hope he understands.

 

“I am sorry you have felt as if I received the best of Legolas and you missed out but you have to know, if they have not told you the details of the sea-longing then you do not know the half of it, Estel.”

 

“Was he ever happy?” he asks me. 

 

“Oh of course he was happy.” He looks so miserable I would like to touch him, to take his hand, but I think that would not be accepted. “He had a smile that would light the world, but it was always a struggle, Estel, as long as I knew him. A struggle he kept hidden for the most part.” 

 

“That is my father,” he sighs. “Always hiding his struggles. And now I have added to them.” 

 

There is a pause then, a silence that drags on until I feel compelled to break it with the first foolish thing that comes into my head. 

 

“Well at least your food tastes good.” 

 

And against the odds he laughs. 

 

“Yes I may be a failure of a son but I can cook!” 

 

I should give him a lecture about that negativity. I should boost his spirits by elaborating on what a wonderful son he actually is, but I think doing that will lose me this glimpse of lightheartedness that I love so much. 

 

Instead I return to the security and comfort of Gimli. 

 

“Gimli would be proud,” I say. “He would exclaim that the fool of an elf has somehow managed to produce one more skilled than he and just as well so he no longer has to starve.” 

 

He rewards me with a splutter of laugher and a smile that is genuine. 

 

“I want to meet Gimli,” he says. “I think I would like him.” 

 

“I know you will like him.” 

 

And I hope against hope that day is not too far away. 

 

 

 

 


End file.
